The Monster Side of Me
by Joby87
Summary: On the night of Sam's sixteenth birthday, a new hunt is called: one more deadly than the Winchester family is prepared to face. Meanwhile the youngest becomes ill. But when his sickness allows him to become a victim of a creature parading around town ripping its victims apart, John and Dean must fight against the odds to save him, or forever lose him to the monster. Hurt/Sick Sam
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** The Monster Side of Me.

**Synopsis:** On the night of Sam's sixteenth birthday, a new hunt is called: One more deadly than the Winchester family is prepared to face. Meanwhile the youngest becomes ill. The rest of his family condones it as an excuse for recalcitrance. But when his sickness allows him to become a victim of the creature parading around town ripping its victims apart, John and Dean not only learn they only have a limited amount of time to save their last remaining family member, but also learn what all they have left and what all they're not willing to lose.

**Disclaimer:** Title taken from a song lyric from "Monster" by "Skillet" (I know right? Who would name their band after a frying pan? But they're amazingly awesome!)

Also, I do not own the characters, nor the Supernatural storyline. That privilege belongs to the lucky bastard that he is, Kripke. This contains for the most part sick Sam, leading up to limp Sam. Plus Dean as the older protective brother and John as the gung-ho hunter as we all know and love.

Sam, 16. Dean, 20. John, … whatever you decide. Sick/Hurt Sam. Protective/Hurt Dean (later on).

**Note:** **To those who are confused, yes, I did delete this story. But I've brought it back for a short time only to those who have asked. Thanks so much!**

* * *

**Prelude:**

Late one night, Dean Winchester sat at his brother's computer searching the lore about creatures lurking in the dark. The current hunt had him up to his eyeballs in questions with no solid leads to follow. The past week had all three Winchesters high-strung as the number of victims kept climbing. Searching online, it came as a real irritation when nothing but **Boogeyman** kept popping up in blue bold links. Sam's suggestion of it earlier had him batten it down instantly. There were various kinds of mythical lore he refused to believe that existed.

Quickly he typed in another keyword. Whatever was snatching these people? It liked the dark, fly and maggot nesting grounds (or any isolated dingy place) and enjoyed ripping its victims apart. Anything from a shapeshifter to a ghoul certainly fit the bill.

Even as he typed in ghoul—besides a whole host of definitions, supposed victim accounts, and digital vampires sucking on Barbie-doll animations— another link connected to the Big B. listed into view. His eyes dimmed and his mouth sagged into a crooked line. Goblins. Pixies. _Santa._ Anything else he'd take…but nothing else matched the description.

He had absolutely refused to think they were messing with the boogeyman. Let's get real here? Boogeyman? _The? _The dude who hides under beds and in closets causing kiddies to wet themselves? It was just some story that some Jacked-upped loser or overstressed mom created to keep their kids in bed. Right?

There were many monsters that were made up. Godzilla. The Creature from the Black Lagoon. Aliens. _Teletubbies_…

He chuckled lightly. Sam's theory was too far-fetched. Sam had told him all that he read and analyzed while at the Calvin's residence from earlier. And he had to admit, the kid did make a tad bit of sense, which was probably why he was searching through the Web right now...and so far everything Sam had told him turned out to be true.

But the suggestion of the boogeyman put the whole job on an ass-cracking pause, where it was reduced to nothing but hurting lungs and teary eyes. _The Boogeyman, somebody stop me please_….

The links did nothing to repress his growing laughter and disbelief. He wanted to believe his brother. He did. But the absurdity of it all made him continue to convulse with silent giggles. He wondered how much his dad would laugh once he told him. The man more or less would have delivered a _don't-have-time-for-bullshit_ glare and strode on. He had to admit there was a slight tingle in his gut filled with doubt: doubt, that his little straight-A student brother could possibly be right and this scenario was about to come back and bite him in the ass.

He paused again…then shook his head, overcome with more fits of laughter.

Wiping the saline from his eyes, he saw the tangled mass of his brother sleeping soundly on the motel's bed. Nothing but the kid's untidy hair could be seen jutting out from the antiquated horribly flower-designed comforter. Once the ringing in his ears settled from the onslaught of giddiness, Dean heard the tiny squeaks of Sam's snores. His brother slept like the dead. The chauvinistic bastard, whose house Sam was stuck at -courtesy of John's punishment for him- had worked him really hard. Evident from the disappearance of the usual pained lines etched into the kid's face he'd seen on a daily basis.

In a way, Dean was glad he stood up to his father—albeit cowardly through the phone and not face to face. Sam had been looking a bit peaky for the last few days, and with the way his father had been so high-strung lately, drilling them hard, no doubt Sam would have come down with something. And there was no way in Hell he was taking care of a sick Sam. He loved his brother, but a sick Sam was a whiny bitchy Sam. Yelping Pomeranians high on crack were more bearable to deal with.

So yeah? The conversation he had with his father was over. His brother was sleeping—the most he had been in weeks. And his dad was not within swinging distance. Life was peachy…for the moment.

A pungent stench wafted through the room. Dean crinkled his nose in disgust, wiping it clean. He shook his head realizing the direction from which the noxious fumes sprung forth. Then he wondered just how happy Sammy's dreams were.

"Damn."

But there was still work to be had. People were dying. So at least for that night (or until his dad came home) he didn't have to worry about anything. He could relax and enjoy the research…somewhat.

He was about to find out how wrong he was in the next thirty seconds!

* * *

The shadow beneath Sam's bed grew darker. A tiny rustling sounded. Then suddenly a gangly bluish-green hand with long dirty ivory fingernails emerged from the dark. It reached upward revealing an arm attached to it. The arm had more of the sickly bluish color with jagged patches of scabs and hairy pimply spots decorating it. It slowly snaked under the scratchy covers. The hand slithered upward onto the hardened mattress fanning out…searching…until it met warm calloused flesh.

Quickly it latched onto the angled appendage.

Sam's eyes shot open.

With incalculable speed and strength, the hand pulled on the foot, yanking the boy under the covers and onto the floor.

Sam had no time to comprehend what was happening. There was no time to scream. No time to act surprised. The next second, whatever it was holding onto his ankle, was pulling him under the bed. With a surprised yelp, he grabbed the footing of the bed just before his entire body was submerged. "DEAN!"

Dean had heard the loud thud and instantly leapt from his chair. "Sam!" Falling forward onto his knees, he grabbed a hold of Sam's arms. "Hang on Sammy!"

"Dean!" He slid to the right. Dean lost his grip just as Sam slid to the left. "Dean help me!"

The fear of God was suddenly in the older brother as his little brother now flopped up and down like a fish, briefly letting go. Sam was pulled further beneath. He caught his hand in time. Growing crimson in the face and pulling with all his might, Dean managed to bring an arm out. Sam used his other hand to latch around the bed frame.

"Dean! Dean!" His name was constantly called. "Dean!"

"SAMMY!" Dean cried out, quickly taking hold of Sam's other hand. Putting both feet on the edge of the mattress, he pushed, stretching with everything he had like a rower on an Erg machine. Sam's face and torso slowly emerged into view. "Hang on!"

Sam's face was blood-red. Tears leaked down the sides, staining the shoulders of his grey tee-shirt, where Dean also noticed rips and darkened stains. "Dean," Sam screamed. Then his body jerked in his grip several times. Soon it became clear that Sam was kicking at his adversary. The sound of a tiger's growl chimed. Then Sam jerked again, his head bucking back. Next a strangled cry of bloody-murder issued from his mouth, just as spurts of blood shot out and doused both their faces. Once again his body was thrown from side to side. Dean's grip was loosened.

"NO! NO! Sammy!"

"DEAN!" Another scream. Then he screamed some more. That was all his brother seemed to be capable of. Then finally there was a "Don't let me go!"

The fiend yanked on Sam's body again, throwing them both into the floor board. Dean's head smashed into the bed's wooden frame, becoming smushed as the force increased.

"Don't let me go!" Sam cried again, tightening his fist around Dean's black AC/DC tee-shirt. Dean didn't care if he had ripped it. It wasn't like this was the time to reprimand his brother to be mindful of the Gods of Rock. Another tiger-like call reverberated along with the sickening sounds of biting and crunching. "DEAN!"

"COME ON!" he curled an arm around Sam's bloodied torso. The strain was so immense. Tears of his own began to form…and they weren't from the strain of holding Sam up. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on. "NO!"

* * *

**Now, so you don't get confused, this is an excerpt from later on in the story. It gives you a premise of what the story will entail, and to see if you would be interested in it at all. And yes, this will have lots of gore and cliffhangers. Enjoy!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: **

**The Winchester Chronicles**

_One week earlier:_

A feminine scream sounded inside a small cottage. Flocks of navy sparrows flew out of a soot-covered chimney, flapping hastily out into the twilight setting. The woman's shrill cry rang loudly inside the long chute. Soon her screams carried on out into the misty countryside, and soon died.

The sun began to set.

Harsh pants sounded from the woman's heaving chest. Leaves crunched loudly as she ran past. Groves of shrubs and thorns snagged at her linen pant legs, ripping them to shreds. She ran wild, anywhere, continuing with no set goal of destination, ranging deeper into the heavily wooded forest. Her bushel of curly dark locks hung messily; spots of red adorned her white cardigan. Blisters formed on her feet while she ran bare-foot, having lost her soles in the forest's muck.

Terrified and frantic, the woman kept running from her pursuer. He was close. She felt it.

A ways in, when the deciduous territory grew too dense to run through, she paused gulping in a greedy breath. _Caws_ and _whoops_ sounded all around her, as if all the forest's critters were in a pep rally. They made it difficult to listen for her enemy. Clicking occurred, and she whirled around with a gasp. There was nothing. Only shadows.

She looked up to the dawning moon. Red splotches covered the bottom of its large curve. Her stomach flipped. _An omen._

Continuing to survey her surroundings, one thing became clear: The forest had a mind of its own.

Massive Pines and Cedars grouped together, swaying with the fierce wind, creaking loudly as though laughing. Detritus and mounds of dead leaves and branches broke and swirled, squeaking like racing mice. The wind howled eerily sending the message to each of the inhabitants of the darkness encroaching. There was hardly any light. Mostly everything was masked in an array of blues, blacks, and greens. It was beautiful, had it not seem sinister. The tree's shadows moved and swayed, appearing like congregates of devilish figures reaching out with gnarled spiny hands to claim their victim, moving so slowly.

_Another omen of her death-to-come._

The woman read her surroundings, as it was her gift.

The forest's message was clear. It would not help her. It would not cloak her from her approaching enemy, not shield her, nor protect her. She was left to fend for herself. Closing her bright green eyes, she muttered a small prayer in Gaelic. The forest whistled in reply.

That was her sign.

Clicking sounded again.

She did not spin around in response to it again. She did nothing when the cold metal end of a gun was pressed to her chest. Slowly opening her eyes, she peered into those of her killer's. Black holes stared back at her with no remorse; no complacency. They were merely heartless…as one would expect from a hunter.

But as she still had breath within her, she made an attempt. As a proud woman, she would never plead for her life. It was not within her spirit for she had lived for a long time. But this wasn't about her. It never was. There was a chance—albeit a fraction of one.

"Please. Do not do this. We are not the enemy. Everyone in this town will be endangered if you follow through."

The black eyes simply narrowed. "Everyone already is in danger with the likes of you. Extermination is the only option our species has left."

"Please," her crystalline eyes glistened, "I hold the key to the box. You kill me, and it will be set free."

The hunter scoffed. "Whatever that means, witch." And he squeezed the trigger.

* * *

It was going to be a busy night for John Winchester.

Gray and grizzled, the aging man sat disgruntled, formulating in his head a list. He dreaded the task that lay ahead. More so since he was alone in the matter. His sons bailed on him at the last minute, which was not unexpected. Hardly any one of the Winchester trio was courageous to do what he chose to do. It was after all, a really dirty job.

He looked ahead, chewing on his tongue—a good stress reliever—preparing to take on the glorious duty.

His eyes first fell on the couple of shotguns before him. They were nice suitable candidates to use. Then his eyes roamed on the rest of his weapons. The pistols— the Pearl and the Eagle Magnum (the smaller ones)—were enticing too. A battle raged in his mind about which to pick up.

He groaned. He really didn't want to have to do this. That list appeared in his head.

**First,** cleaning and wiping the dust and powder out of the gun's barrels was the main priority. It was always beneficial to do the dirtiest and worst part first. He hated dusting. Gunpowder in the eyes was a bitch. Plus, the dust occasionally stirred up his allergies. He too hated nights when he'd have to go through at least three boxes of Kleenex, being completely miserable. The tissue box was already set on standby.

**Second,** checking and oiling the mechanics in those guns, making sure all were in well working condition. With a steady job of hunting down Satan's helpers and paranormal henchmen, properly working artillery was a must. There were times when a gun would jam, or he'd get burnt from the powder backfiring, singeing his hands, causing his survival chances in a hunt to slim. Often with faulty equipment, the result would be he'd have to go to a nearby clinic and risk his identity, ergo more incentive to clean.

He sat on one of the queen-sized mattresses inside his late home, the Dabbernacle Motel, overlooking all the guns and parts scattered across the opposite bed. Using a padded push-plunger, he went about cleaning one of the pipes of the sawed-off shotguns, keeping a nattily eye on the rest of the weapons.

And **thirdly,** inventory.

John absolutely despised inventory. He always saved that detail for last. Making a list of every gun, checking off what he needed and what he had in stock was an unsought task he barely valued…but didn't take for granted either. Going out with guns blazing and not worrying about what he had for use was more his thing, improvising if need be. But the smart thing to do was keep and update a roster.

He was still a father, he had to remember that. Carrying on with reckless behaviors was not in his sons' best interests, especially when one had yet to graduate high school. Typically he'd have his two boys take care of the arsenal. That way during a hunt, that was one less thing to have to deal with. But as since, he had one son who was more responsible, but had a bad habit of forgetting most things in his eagerness and whose mutinous hormones often took over the mother ship making him easily distracted by the opposite sex; and the other son who just didn't give a shit; it was best if he himself had gone about taking care what was necessary.

So far John was proud. His usual unpredictable morose life had not thrown him a wicked curveball as of late. For one, he actually found the time to complete tidying the arsenal; and two, he was making a record of staying within a town for more than six months, without having to pack up and ship out within a matter of minutes.

The small town in upstate Maine was nice. Chilly. But cozy. He'd have a few hunts here and there, usually with him or his eldest going out of town from time to time. But for the most part, it's been quiet. Not that he's complaining. Sam, his youngest, still had a temper. The kid loved to partake in school (like it meant something), worrying about grades and extra credit. It was important for him to establish a life. So the longer the family remained in one place, the less many tempestuous episodes his son would conduct.

Dean didn't seem to mind either. Strutting around town like the pompous Labrador, gaining all the ladies' attention, Dean was making use of his stay. But John knew his son only had a two-track mind. One side of the track—besides having a reputation of being a frivolous philander on the side—was hunting, just like his old man; and on the other side of the track, was taking care of his little brother. John would never admit it, but Dean was more like a father to Sam than he ever could try to be. He left things a long time ago to be as they were.

Dean, as always, was present and accounted for Sam when John failed to be. He went to his school plays, soccer matches, scholastic _mathathons_ (whatever those were), and when the occasion called for it, parent meetings. Other times Dean succeeded as an older brother/mentor in helping out with homework. He fed him, clothed him, took him under his wing, showing him the ropes of what it was to be a teenager—taking on the responsibility without any complaint. _Which was unusual for an older sibling._

The boys had a bond like no other. John was mightily proud of that and cherished it.

He had just completed refitting and oiling down the gears in the shotgun when his cell vibrated on the nightstand. The caller ID read **Murphy.**

John picked up the phone, pressing the button. "Hey Jim, how…You did…Thanks Pastor. Way to be there…Oh it's been real quiet here. Nothing has come up. I tried calling in to see if there had been any news of late. But nothing…Yeah the search is growing cold by the minute. But I know that Mary's killer is still roaming out there. He'll show his ugly face soon enough…huh? Yeah, I know you've heard this speech a dozen times. I'm just saying…the boys? Oh you know. Boys being boys, doing what they do best…heh, they better be staying out of trouble. But you know I can't stop them. Nothing can…" he laughed, "That's right. Okay, well thanks again for taking care of that poltergeist for me. I'll call you if anything else comes up your way. Bye now."

Clicking the button to end the call, John's face darkened. He threw his phone back onto the table, reflecting off his somber mood. Jim the pastor had asked if he had found any new leads pertaining to his wife's murderer.

It happened on the night of November second, sixteen years ago. The night he lost his beloved wife to a fiery fate, and not just to the fire, but to something; something that took her away from him and their two boys. A thing, a monster, crept into his son's nursery and while Mary tried to intervene whatever it wanted with his toddler, it had killed her…in the most insane way.

John remembered it quite vividly. How could he ever forget the night he was officially introduced to the supernatural realm? He ran into the room after hearing her scream. Everything at first appeared fine, but then he quickly found the drops of blood on his hand, thus looking up and finding his wife pinned to the ceiling, ripped open and dying. The fire started seconds later, consuming the entire nursery and Mary. Tears sprang to his eyes at the memory. The fire to this day still felt hot on his skin.

Since then, he had been on the road searching endlessly for her killer, and along the way training, tracking, and killing any preternatural enemy that stood in his way. Through the years, he hadn't found any real leads, only that possibly it was something demonic, but nonetheless supernatural.

Over the years, one rule was established. If it was deemed evil, then automatically its life was deemed expired. No argument.

That horrible night was instilled in his oldest who was four at the time. John often saw it still haunted him. Now-a-days, if Mary's name was ever mentioned, chances were the middle Winchester would declare holy war. That sort of inner turmoil only gave him more motivation to carry on with his father's work. Dean was skilled, eager, lived for the combat, lived for the hunt. He knew what was at stake, and in a way, he thrived in the livelihood. Ultimately, Dean would be a fine hunter someday.

Sam, however, was a different story. Nine times out of ten, the kid would go out of his way to do the exact opposite of what John had ordered…the typical rebellious teenager. Hell! Sam was the classic epitome! Hopefully he would grow to understand what had to be done, but John wasn't that hopeful. Sam was only an infant when Mary passed. He hardly knew her, therefore wasn't as obsessed as John and Dean were when it came to the hunt. Sam had more of a soft nature, like Mary. Preferred to base an entity's demise based on its actions, rather than what it was. That kind of thinking would get him killed one day if John couldn't drill it out of him.

John felt guilty, as he always had. He often wondered if his family might have been different if Mary was still amongst them. If she had survived the fire. If her killer hadn't come that night. Would they have been normal, worrying about taxes and mortgages, and school fees like any other parent? Would they be happy? Constantly he wondered. And constantly he'd regret all that had happened to his once picture-perfect family. But for John, he'd simply transform that guilt into fuel to take on more hunts.

Whatever it was that had bestowed this miserable existence upon him and his sons, of always hunting creatures of the supernatural world, living in the dark, lying, occasionally steal, and living as outsiders? John made a vow to not stop until _it_ had seen the hole of his gun; regardless about how his kids felt. He had at one point felt guilty about pressuring this kind of life on them. But somehow they learned to accept…well, maybe just the one. The other still needed a little more convincing.

So instead of trying to make it up to his kids for, what he felt, being the occasional cop-out father, the least he could do was to allow them to relax and enjoy a place for awhile…even if they do live in a motel.

Thinking of his boys, John said out loud, "What are those boys up to?"

He pondered where they might have been, but deep down, really didn't want to know.

* * *

"CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!" came a chorus of shouts around the bar. Several people beat and hammered their fists in harmony as they shouted. "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!"

Trails of foamy amber liquid fell over the sides of Dean's cheeks, his head tilted far back. The bottom of the pint-sized mug was high in the air. His fans cheered some more, their voices becoming louder as more of the liquid disappeared. Dean's throat muscles worked overtime. The alcohol burned relentlessly down his pipe, but he wasn't about to quit: He was on a roll. He raised his hands in the air once the pint was drained.

"Ah! Three down baby! Oh yeah! Who's the master?" Gloating in triumph, the twenty-year-old turned to his competition, a chubby tousled-hair college kid sitting with his half-downed cup, gawking at him dumbfounded. He stretched out his hand, "Pay up."

The brutish college kid shook his head in disappointment, reaching into his tight jeans' pocket and pulling out a 'fifty'. Dean took the money gladly. His fans also went about exchanging betted amounts.

Still beaming in his achievement, Dean whirled around, facing his little brother who peered at him heroically. "Way to go dude!"

"Thanks Sammy!" Dean ruffled the kid's short hair. "Alright birthday boy, your turn."

"Uh, it's okay. I think I'll pass," Sam said sheepishly.

"Oh I don't think so," Dean pressed, motioning to the bartender to serve another beer. "We are not leaving here until you've had your first beer. And there is no getting out of this one, buddy-boy. You can count on it. This is my gift to you, so get on with it."

Despite the kid turning sixteen, Dean had only brought him for one thing: experience. The kid was going to experience the good life, bottom line. He could understand Sam's nervousness. The creepy bug-eye bartender looked quite suspicious at the fake ID he used to get Sam in the bar. Well, the ID was hardly convincing. But the great thing was, the bartender served anyway, regardless.

Taking an eye-starving look at the large glass filled with a **Sam Adams** brew, Sam prepared himself. He felt rather odd in doing this activity, but with his zealous brother beside him eyeballing him with anticipation, there wasn't any other choice. But it wasn't like he had totally rejected it. Taking a deep breath, he downed several gulps.

"Ugh, yuck. That's nasty," he exclaimed.

"Eh, well, ya gotta get used to it," Dean insisted, "Go on. Keep going. You have to finish your first beer."

Dean's smile grew bigger as Sam continued to gulp down the beer. Turning away, he saw the rest of the small town bar in a flurry of activity. The place buzzed with swarms of young people, around the age of twenty-five. All with beer bottles of various labels. The most popular **Miller Lite**.

A karaoke stage was stationed in the back. Many young victims hopped up on the stage, singing drunkenly—getting a taste for the spotlight. The bar-top itself was one long arc, stretching from one end of the small vicinity to the other. Since there was no other area to serve alcohol, the many swarms all congregated at the base of the bar, where three bartenders hustled about taking orders.

By the time Sam was finished with his first glass, Dean was already handing him a second. Sam took it reluctantly. He was halfway through when a pretty brunette caught Dean's eye. Then an awful, but otherwise fun thought occurred to Big Brother.

Tapping Sam's shoulder, he pointed his brother's attention to the girl. "Hey Sammy. You see her?"

"Who?" Sam looked around, becoming once again nervous. There would be only one reason why Dean would point out a girl to him.

"Her," Dean continued to point ahead, "The one with the pink strapless and baby-cut jean skirt. Do you see her?"

Sam did. The girl he was referring to was exceptionally pretty, with a bronze tan, large dark curls, and cowboy boots. Judging from her appearance, she looked as though she chewed up guys like him and spit them out on a daily basis. He pointed this out to Dean. But was that a good enough answer for big brother dear? Hell no!

"Come on little bro. Go talk to her. You never know," Dean encouraged. Sam gulped down some more of his beer at an alarming rate. He only stopped once Dean took the glass from him. Dean pushed him ahead. "Go on. Make small talk."

"Dean. Do I have to?" Sam whined, never before being this nervous. He'd rather take the MCAT than talk to this girl. Shyness was always an obstacle in his teen years…and one he never managed to overcome.

Dean continued to push him ahead. "Yes you do. You can do it. I know it. Come on, gotta pop that cherry sometime, dude. Now's a good time as any."

"But…well…what do I say?"

"Anything. Talk about a good song or something. Just whatever you do, don't talk about the weather. Get in there," Dean gave Sam one final push and then strode back to the bar. He watched with glee as his brother was basically served to a shark.

A commotion of husky voices and discontented shouts chorused to the right. Dean looked over at the poker tables and saw amidst the cloud of smoke several jolly giants of men harping around a small table. A small smile lit up on his face. He recognized the kind of babble. It only happened every time the Queen of Poker was present.

Strolling towards the harpers, Dean broke through the swarms of men at the bar's main poker table. There a raven-haired woman sat at the front collecting a huge pile of cash and brightly colored chips. One swift glance of the pale pointy face and emerald eyes confirmed his suspicion; it was _her._

Anya, aka the nineteen-year-old poker champion of Greenton…and the only girl within a twenty-mile radius that hasn't given in to his _charm_...yet. Dean had been attempting perpetually to catch this particular dolphin in the net. But as usual, the dolphin typically outsmarted the fisherman. Like Henry the Eighth, her hard-to-get strategy was one of the main things that attracted him.

As the losers exited the table heated, Dean took their seat. Anya counted her earnings, not at all looking up to see her new opponent.

She didn't need to. Speaking in a strong New England accent with a hint of an Irish tinge, she said, "Hello Winchester. Ready for another round?"

"Why m'lady, must you set yourself up?" Dean said comically in a Shakespearian character accent. "Aye, tis ready for another round. You might be matched for you have a fair opponent, no?"

Anya chuckled, revealing her perfectly straight teeth. Her smile was another attribute that attracted him to her. "Aye good sir. We shall see," she replied filing the cards, and dealing them out towards him. "What'll be the wager this time?"

"Hmmm, let's say a date tomorrow night," Dean answered coolly.

Anya shook her head. Her eyebrows met. "Always the same. So predictable. No money?"

"Nah. Never bet what little I have left."

"Alright Dean I'll take the bet. You win. I'm humbly yours for an entire week..."

Dean's eyebrows shot upward. He wasn't expecting that.

"…but if I win…"

_Oh boy, how could he not see that one coming?_

"…you stop asking."

"Oh come on, that's not fair," Dean griped.

"Well, then you better start concentrating. Deal?"

"Deal," he agreed reluctantly.

They started playing. Halfway through the game, Dean felt confident. Not too confident in his skills, but enough to where he felt he could win. And he really did want to win. But the thousand times he played this girl, she often had a way of sneak attack that would typically knock him on his ass.

Picking up a card from the middle slot, he glimpsed over and saw the man who recently lost over at the bar chugging down a pint. He nodded towards him. "What's up with him?"

"Oh he's just grousing because he lost his rent money."

"Well that's why you never bet all at once."

Anya laughed. "Spoken like a true pro."

"You would know, wouldn't you?"

She grinned. "So," the girl's crystalline green eyes sparkled, "what brings you here this time tonight? You're not your usual spunky care-free self."

"Oh that's probably because I'm here with my little brother, celebrating his sixteenth birthday. Never has had a beer before," Dean responded sheepishly.

"Wasn't that sweet of you? And yet you're trying to score a date?"

"Yep…and hopefully if everything goes well, he would be too."

"Has he had much luck?"

"Sammy? Ha, a fly has better luck escaping a fly-zapper than he does in scoring tonight. But it's all for experience. He'll learn."

"Oh, well aren't you a feather blowing in the wind? (Dean made a face at that statement) Alright chap, moment of truth. You ready?"

"Ready as I'm gonna be," Dean smiled. He laid down his cards. "Three Kings over Aces. Honey, you're mine."

Anya's smirk never left her face. Dean was uncertain if she was throwing a good poker face or what. But there was no way she could have pulled a fast one over him.

"That's pretty good Dean. Not bad…but—"

_Here it comes!_

She laid down her cards. "Royal flush, I think beats the kings."

"Shit," Dean grumbled.

Anya laughed, collecting her cards. "Hey, ya gotta love family. They always beat the odds, don't they?"

"Damn girl. You're good. Dammit you're good." Dean was crushed.

"Cheer up. I'll buy you a pint," she stood up, stowing the cards in her jean's pocket.

Dean immediately agreed following her to the bar. After downing his fourth beer of the night, they talked some more. He was giddy by the end of it.

Soon more groups of people filed into the bar later in the night. The place becoming so packed, it was nearing emergency capacity, bringing with it incredible heat. Eventually Dean found it hard to breathe.

"Want some air?" he asked Anya.

She nodded following him through the tight crowd. Each gulped in a large breath once they reached the frostbitten air. Then both erupted in a series of giggles. The fresh air felt good, but soon acquired a biting edge to it. Anya shivered a bit, wrapping her long dark jacket around her slender frame. Dean just shrugged his father's leather jacket up some. He was cold, but his masculinity wasn't Man enough to show it.

They continued their conversation about the possible existence of one-eyed giants…yeah like the kind you'd find in Jack and the Beanstalk. That was one thing he valued about Anya. She always had a unique perspective about the supernatural world, and surprisingly had known a lot about. He felt like he could relate; almost comfortable talking about a subject he knew so well. It was one of the many reasons he frequently visited the bar, just to meet and talk to her. Besides his family, there was no one else he could talk to about his side-job.

Often he wondered if she was a hunter of some kind, but when he made the subtle hint, she looked at him like he had three heads. Apparently it was revealed during one of their frequent sessions, she was a fan; a believer of the world. She had studied various kinds of lore and internet blogs, fascinated by it. In some cases, during a hunt, he'd surreptitiously ask her about the particular creature at the time…funny enough, it would work. Dean just was smart enough to keep it a secret. Kind and naïve people like her didn't need to know if it was real. They didn't deserve that. Though that didn't mean it was hard in keeping it a secret.

Sometime during their fantasy-full conversation, now about the different kinds of frogspawn, Anya peered up at the moon and gasped. Dean looked at it and saw it was bright yellow with red lining its curve. "What is it?"

Wide-eyed, Anya said nothing. Then she muttered, "I have to go."

"What?"

Still eying the moon, she said, "I…I forgot something. I must go, now."

Before Dean had time to protest, she rushed away. Surprised, Dean considered her departure for a minute. He knew she was a fanatic, but never had he considered her to be superstitious. He glanced back up at the moon and instantly understood why she was concerned. Bloody spots on the moon (though a color spectrum produced by the earth's atmosphere), according to some lore were held as bad omen: Usually ones concerning death.

"Alrighty then. Okay. Hope Sammy's having better luck than I am in scoring tonight. Probably not," he chuckled. His smile instantly faded as the memory of sending the scrawny kid off into the sea of drunks struck home, "Oh shit! Sammy! " He charged back into the building.

* * *

_Several Miles Away: _

The blackened pointer on a grand-cedar Grandfather clock sidled on top of the big _eight._ The clock chimed loudly, reverberating all around the country home alerting the two occupants in the house of the Eight O' Clock hour. A man rushed down carpeted steps, passing by the grand clock on his way out the door. His blonde hair in disarray and his clothes a bit sweaty and ruffled.

Stepping off the short porch and onto the walkway, he turned and looked up at the second-story window. The light was still on. He bent his head down onto his collar and sniffed. The sweet fragrance of his mistress's perfume stuck to it, reminding him of his fabulous night. The contents were far more appealing than her other taste in perfume from the bottle he accidentally spilled.

The man checked his watch again, huffed, and sped off towards his silver Chevy Cavalier parked on the curb. The wind of the lonely Maine town picked up, giving him a chill. Stink from the sewer system blew along with it. He gagged on it, losing focus on sticking the key into the lock. By the time he managed to get inside, the smell was so stifling he felt like he could suffocate in it. The stench lingered inside the mobile as well.

Turning the key, the man sat there waiting on his car to warm up, also wondering what he was going to tell his awaiting pregnant wife at home.

"Sorry honey. Bill called me in late again. I'm sorry I didn't call, my phone died…no," he said to himself, rubbing his hands together, "Uh, honey, Grace had a complication and Clyde called me to help out. I guess I was too frazzled to call. No, she won't go for that…shit!"

Cranking up the heat, he rubbed his hands together some more against the bitter cold. "How 'bout 'sorry hun, I know you didn't want me to be late, but there was some heavy traffic up on 24. Turns out there was an accident'…Nope, she'd hear about it on the news."

Far too concerned with coming up with an excuse, he was oblivious to the clawed hand reaching up beside his car window.

"Ah hell! I'll just go for the old excuse: bad day at work; was at the bar. I didn't call, because I don't have to."

He went to pull the car into first gear. Two tiger-like caterwauls sounded scaring the dog-eating snot out of him. Looking around through the windows, wiping the condensation off the driver-side window, he saw nothing. The call sounded again. Slightly terrified, the man pulled on the gearshift.

He didn't have a chance.

Two large blackened arms ripped through the floorboard of the car, a loud roar sounding. The young adulterer screamed kicking his legs. The small car rocked back and forth like a cradle. Clawed hands swiveled around reaching for its target. The man jumped up, frantically trying to scramble out of his door. But the damn automatic lock was in place.

One of the spiky hands latched onto his leg, its triangular nails piercing into the man's calf. He screeched, reactively tugging at the grotesque hands. He tried sliding over, latching onto the passenger door handle. The fiend's hands were powerful. With unmatched strength, the hand easily pulled its victim through the small hole. Blood streamed through the opening, pooling under the car, trailing along the gutter into the sewer system.

_The monster was free._


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: **

**Another Hunt, Another Slaughter**

"Sammy?" Dean called, moving through the crowd of drunks.

His kid brother was nowhere in sight. Through the tight space, Dean trudged back and forth searching for any scrawny, shaggy haired person. There were many in the bar that fit the similarity. Every time his hopes shot up, they were instantly dashed when he found the look-a-likes were not Sammy. The longer he continued to call and search, the more nervous he became. _Go figure! The first time he takes the kid out on his own he loses him._

"SAMMY!" he had to yell. The karaoke machine resonated in the background making it hard to hear. The crowd cheered and laughed all raising their glasses. A person started singing…unbelievably "Like a Virgin" by Madonna. Dean shuddered once he or she (he couldn't tell) began singing the first couple of verses.

He ducked down, asking several people if they had seen the kid. Many had said no. He approached a young couple leaning against the bartop. The guy, a chubby sort of man in jeans and a blue pull-over, bopped his head listening, with his arm wrapped around a petit little woman in a tight black dress. She sort of reminded him of Winona Ryder. The guy looked to the side checking out a young skirt…until little Winona smacked his chest and told him to stare straight ahead.

_Ah, can tell who wears the pants in that relationship_, Dean thought.

He stepped up to them. "Hey."

The man tensed, wrapping his arm tighter around his woman. Dean scoffed at him. "Hey take it easy, I just need to ask you a question."

"Sure hun," Winona replied, shaking off the robust arm. "What do you need?"

"Have you seen a kid in here?" He leveled his hand at his shoulder. "He's about yay-high, really skinny, has short curly hair. I think he wore a white and red checkered shirt kinda like the one I have on?"

"Uh no, I don't think so."

Dean huffed, turning around. "Dammit Sammy, where are you?"

The guy tapped his shoulder. "Hey man. Isn't that him up there?"

Turning in the direction the guy pointed, Dean froze upon seeing his baby brother up on the stage, mike in hand, singing his tiny ass off. His jaw dropped. Sam. Sam Winchester. Rebellious, tough-guy wannabe was singing Madonna.

Let me reiterate…**Madonna!**_ Jim Jesus!_

Dean was too stunned to move. His jaw couldn't leave the floor. "_Oh_…my God." The color in his cheeks intensified, becoming more embarrassed by the second.

Sam turned out not to be a bad singer. The crowd cheered and crowed on and off, until he started hitting the high notes. Everyone cringed, holding their glasses and bottles tight in case they shattered. Dean's head made a faceplant into his hand.

"Dude that guy has got to be drunk off his ass," the subordinate man behind him said.

"How? He's only had two beers!" Dean exclaimed.

Not apt to suffer any more humiliation, Dean trudged towards the stage. He waved his hands to gain Sam's attention. It didn't take. The humiliation Richter scale fell way over Nine when Sam then turned around and started shimmying, wiggling his ass in front of the crowd, now singing "Getting Jiggy Wit It."

Dean's eyes grew to the size of Mars and he let out a gigantic squeal. "Oh God help us. Sammy! What the hell are you doing? Get down from there!"

His brother didn't hear him. "Sammy!"

Sam finally turned around. "Hey Dean," he said into the microphone. "Hey everyone, he's my brother. That he is."

All eyes roamed to his location. Put on the spot, Dean shook his head. "Nope. Never seen him in my life."

"Sure ya do. We share a motel room, dope!"

A look of pure horror rained down on Dean's face. On the outside he was aghast that his brother said that to everyone, in the microphone no less. In the inside, he was screaming like a little girl, waiting for the chance to rip into his sibling. "Sammy, not helping. Get down from there _NOW!_"

Grabbing Sam's bicep, he dragged the kid off stage. The crowd cheered some more at the next person who walked on stage, swaying back and forth. After that little episode, Dean was in the mood for a load of shots. And he was _sooo_ forcing Sam to suffer with him. "Man, I gotta keep you on a leash."

Finally reaching the bar, Sam wrestled his arm out of Dean's grip. "She said I had to," he said out loud.

"What?"

"She…you know _she,"_ Sam emphasized blinking brightly, "the one you sicced on me. She said for me to have a chance I had to sing. So I did."

The big brother tried so hard to suppress a snort, but failed miserably. "Yeah Sam, she was playin' ya buddy."

"No she wasn't—"

"Yes she was. Because she knew you were just too gullible," Dean interrupted, motioning to the bartender to serve a couple of shots of **Gold Schlogger**. Handing the tiny glass to Sam he said, "Bottoms' up Sammy."

"Whatever," Sam rolled his eyes taking the shot, then grimaced, "Oh _God_ that burns!"

"I know, right! Here comes round two."

They downed the second round quickly. Sam belched. "Ugh, that's gross."

Dean laughed. "Yeah, Schlogger's ya gotta acquire a taste for. Come on try another one."

"Dean, can we try something else? Cuz that's just nasty."

"Okay. Make sure you drink plenty of water too. That'll help," Dean replied handing him a new shot of **Southern Comfort**.

Three shots, two beers, and a glass of water later, Sam was done. The music raved. People danced…or as best as they could. Soon everyone was hootin' and hollarin', grinding, and yelling. The floor moved with the vibrations, seemingly undulating like a wave pool. To someone on the outside, they would have believed it was house full of monkeys screeching.

Both Sam and Dean yelled and laughed along with the crowd. Then, neither one of them knew how nor when, they were both up on stage singing a duet to "Dude Looks like a Lady" by Aerosmith. After various beer bottles took flight towards them, they jumped down.

Sam then started crying to everyone, saying "I love you. I love you." Until he said it to a Biker Dude all in leather and was shoved. He doubled over holding his stomach, his face developing a shade of green.

Dean immediately recognized the signs and began to rush him to the bathroom. "Oh! Hurler in motion. Hurler in motion. Clear a path. Coming through."

He pushed Sam into a stall just in time. The kid dropped like a lead weight in front of the commode and began to heave his guts up. In his drunken state, Dean found it rather funny. First time with alcohol, and Sam gets drunker than an elephant on a binge in a river. He hoped it wouldn't lead to alcohol poisoning. Then he really would be knee deep in shit!

"Here ya go buddy. It's all on you. Get it out of your system," Dean told him shaking his head. "Dad's going to kill us."

As if it was on cue, Dean's phone started ringing. Taking the small device out, he rolled his eyes upward. _Speaking of the devil. Perfect timing._

Figuring he might as well get the call over with, he hit the button. "Hey Dad," he said sliding down the wall beside the toilet as Sam heaved again into the basin.

"Where're you boys?" John's commander voice rang out against the porcelain walls.

"Celebratin'."

Sam puked again, a lot louder than he wanted to. Switching the phone to his left ear, Dean reached and messaged the back of the kid's head.

"Celebratin? Celebrating what?" John barked.

"Uh Sam's birthday? It's the second. What else?"

There was silence on the other end.

Rolling his eyes, Dean spoke monotonously, "You forgot, didn't you?"

"Shit, yeah," John sighed. "Tell him I apologize. I'll make it up to him later."

"Sure, I mean it's okay. Sam understands. It's not this is the first time you forgot." Dean didn't mean to say that out loud. That sort of popped out.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing."

"Are you drunk?"

"Lil' bit."

Dean heard John groan on the other end. "Did you drive?"

"Dad? Dude, the bar's _s'like_ a mile from _z'house...I_ mean, room. We walked."

"Start walking now. I want you two home."

"Sure thing Dad. Whatever you say," Dean replied sarcastically. _A little late!_

"Don't be a smartass. The reason I called is to tell you don't come back to the room tonight-"

"But you just said to come home."

"Don't interrupt me. You two will have to get another room."

"Why?"

"I'm weeks behind in cleaning the arsenal and up to my ass in elbow grease. Gonna take me a little longer than I thought to get it all straightened out."

"Alright," Dean agreed.

"Do you have enough cash on you? I won't till morning."

_No_, Dean thought. _Just great. Wonderful timing Dad._ "Yeah sure," he lied, "we'll figure something out." He wasn't about to tell his Dad he spent it all on beer and liquor. "Have fun cleaning. We'll talk to you in the morning. Oh and Dad? Bring a greasy breakfast."

"For what?"

"Believe you me, we're gonna need it." He shut the flap on the phone.

Sam lifted his head from the toilet, shakily flushed it, and slid over, settling in a slump against the wall. He looked tired and sweaty. "Wha'…dad _sssay?"_ Sam slurred.

Dean shook his head again, "Nothing much, we just _havta_ find us _ss'nother_ place to _zzzleep_ tonight, that's all."

Sam sighed. "M'kay. But Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"We don't have any money," he laughed, "we spent it all on the Tequila...and the Jack…and the Rum…and that stupid Kamikaze."

"I know. But we'll think of something."

"Where?"

"Me has an idea dude. Come on, _youze_ ready to go home?" Dean clambered to his feet.

"Yea."

"Wanna walk home?"

"I don' _thiinnkk_ we have _s'choice,"_ Sam slurred.

"Right. Okay, let's go."

"Dean?"

"What?" Big brother groused.

Staring blankly ahead, little brother said, "I can't feel my legs."

* * *

Meanwhile as the boys stumbled back home, John continued with the cleaning and organizing the artillery, cursing at himself for forgetting Sam's birthday. That was just one more thing to add to the guilt-list. Soon it'll be so deep, it'll be like swimming the English Channel.

Not long after his and Dean's phonecall, his cell vibrated again on the worn nightstand. Collecting it, John bucked back in surprised at the caller ID. It was his long time buddy Bobby Singer, whom he swore would never talk to him ever again. The last time the two men met, they didn't leave with sorrowful goodbyes…Bobby's shotgun saw to that.

Pressing the button, John said into the receiver, "Singer. This is a surprise."

"It is," the man's gruff voice sounded. "Listen I wouldn't be callin' if it wasn't important."

"Alright." John rolled his eyes. What else could it have been about? He didn't think it would be to chat.

"I just got a call from a hunting buddy of mine, Todd Langton. You heard of him?"

"No."

"Well, anyway, his brother was just killed by something and Todd's too much of a wreck right now to take care of it. He called me to see if I can take over for him, but I'm currently in the middle of my own gig. Said that you were just as crazy to take on something like this."

"Oh is that so?"

Bobby chuckled deeply. "Take a compliment Winchester. It might help with that stubborn attitude of yours."

"Sure. What are the details?" John asked, curious about the new hunt-to-be.

"I don't know. Todd didn't have much to go on. So far something broke into the man's car and killed him."

"And you're sure it wasn't anything domestic?"

"Considering they found him in pieces under his car with a large hole in the floorboard and all the doors were still closed and locked. Yeah, I say it was pretty domestic," the old hunter replied sarcastically.

"Point taken. Sure I'll do it. Where exactly?"

"Uh, he said somewhere in upstate Maine. Greenton, I think?"

Bobby issued another smack of surprise. "Greenton? Bobby I'm in Greenton. How is it I haven't heard about it yet? I have the police scanner."

"Is it on right now?"

John glanced at the scanner, hidden amongst files of papers on the small dining table. The red light on the little black box was dim. "Hmmm no."

"Well, it only happened a few hours ago. You might want to turn that thing on." Bobby was full of sarcasm tonight.

"Sarcasm Singer." John grumbled. "Wait a minute, if the incident happened a couple hours ago, how is it the brother found out so quickly?" That was a bit fishy.

And Bobby was quick to answer, quickly expelling the brewing suspicion. "He's also a cop on the side and he was the first to arrive on scene."

"Oh, ugh. That sucks," John cringed. "Alright sir, I'll take care of it. Another day, another dollar…"

"Another hunt, another slaughter," Bobby finished.

"I'll call you when the job's done."

"Good," Bobby hung up.

After stowing his phone yet again on the nightstand, John went over and sat beside the scanner, turning the old rusty thing on. A wave of voices and static erupted from the box. At first it was hard to concentrate on. Soon the more he listened, the more he became confused. The officers and orders talking back to one another weren't conversing about the report Bobby had just given him. After focusing for a few more minutes to the dozens of voices and the static between them, he picked his head up.

"There's been another one."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: **

**The Hangover**

A noise like no other sounded, echoing fiercely across the empty street. It started out as a low rumble, but grew to a thunderous capacity creating a vast tremor throughout the land. Birds in an attack-wave fled from nearby Oaks. A few groves of trees swayed with the quake. Squirrels, raccoons, and other rambunctious nesting critters crept back into their havens; terrified they might provoke the seemingly sleeping giant.

Seconds later, another rough noise, similar to the first, sounded directly afterward. One after the other, the two sounds chorused on and off alternatively like gears on a ship. Then soon both _rumblers_ conducted together in one harmonious session, producing one great sonorous effect, threatening to level the entire landscape.

It grew louder…and louder….and…

_Snort!_

The noise lessened. The rumble decreased. The animals slowly inched out of their homes checking for the immediate danger. It seemed as though the giant moved on.

Nope, the giant was still there…only in the form of two teenagers sleeping off their drunkenness in both the front and back seat of their Chevy. With each intake of breath, a behemoth roar would escape past both their laxed jaws, the insides of the Impala rattling greatly.

Nothing but the boy's dinosaur-esque snores could be heard for blocks away.

A shadow then appeared on the outside of the Impala. It stood for a long moment, admiring with intrigue at the rumpus emanating from inside. Then it began to snake along, glimmering distortedly past the opaque back window. Suddenly a hand reached into the open front window, went for the key and turned it.

The ignition ignited: the insides blasted with Heavy Metal Rock.

Both boys launch awake with a gigantic _Gahh _covering their ears.

Harsh barks from the outside sounded. The door opened and the music's volume lowered to a mute, but the harsh barks remained. Both Sam and Dean glared at their enemy, muttering in unison "That's so not cool", and then fell back, resuming their sleeping positions.

John continued to laugh hysterically, climbing into the driver's seat swiping away his son's feet, and plopping down a lunch bag with a greasy bottom at Dean's side. Staring amusingly at his eldest, he said, "Nice room. Very stylish and comfy. I like it."

Dean groaned pulling himself to a sitting position, as the car began to roll. Rummaging through the glove compartment, he pulled out his sunglasses. In the back, the quaking snores struck up again.

Sliding on the bespectacled device, Dean sent a glare Sam's way. "Ugh, how can anyone get any sleep with that?" he patted the seat like a pillow and curled into it.

"That's what I've been saying for years about the both of you." John piped.

The indignant glare (hidden behind the glasses, luckily) now rested on the father figure. "Yeah right, I don't snore," Dean protested.

John huffed, eying his son incredulously. "Beg to differ boy. I swear your snores can compete with a blowhorn."

"Oh come on Dad! They're not that loud."

"Really? I'll put it to you this way. If ever I am caught in a crappy fog and I needed a call for help, I'd be okay cuz I'd have you."

"Dad, isn't that a red light?"

"Huh?" John faced forward in time to see the approaching light-fixture red, with a police unit sitting conveniently at the intersection. "Oh shit," he exclaimed slamming on the brakes. The Impala skidded to a halt barely over the white end-marker.

A loud noise forced both Winchester men to look in the back seat. The youngest was gone. They leaned further and saw Sam now in the floorboard. Dean became stricken with a series of giggles. Seeing his brother flat on his face snoring was too hilarious.

John stymied a laugh. He drove on when the light permitted.

Turning to face the front, Dean noticed the bag of grease topped over, its contents scattered at his feet. "Ah man." He bent down to scoop whatever he could salvage. Luckily the biscuits his father bought were still wrapped and still warm. The third biscuit, however, was half in out of its wrapper sitting on top of his shoe. Smirking with mischievous delight, he placed it back into the bag, reserving it for the chump in the backseat.

After scarfing down breakfast and the rest of the Tylenol bottle in less than ten seconds, the creaky gears in his head had their daily **Two-W-Forty **and slowly began to rotate. The visual image of the road and street signs of the county zooming by in a whirling flash, and his Dad steering the wheel finally registered in his sobering-up brain.

"Where're we going?"

"Crime scene," John answered automatically. "Two people were killed last night. A man and a woman."

Dean sat up straighter. "New hunt?"

"Yep, right here in this God-forsaken town. Couldn't believe it. But we're heading to talk to the brother of one of the victims. He's a hunter too. Talked to Bobby last night."

"Do you want my help?"

His father pursed his lips, pondering. "Not sure yet. I'll check out the details first and let you know. But for the time being, just stay in the car, and sober up."

Dean smiled. "Sure thing. Sammy will be pleased. At least we don't have to move yet."

"Yet."

* * *

John drove the Chevy into suburban territory. The streets were filled with rows of white two-stories, all of the same size and shape with neatly manicured lawns. Many of them had playsets and _Playskool_ toys littering their fronts. It didn't seem like a typical nightcrawler's holiday spot. But they've had surprises before. John turned onto another road matching the same setup, and then onto another. _Jeez, this place is like a freakin' maze._ Already Dean was becoming claustrophobic, thinking he may have needed a string.

Before he had time to reconsider, John pulled down a small lonely street with a shack-like convenience store on one side and a couple of run-down houses on the other. _Ah, more fitting._

It was like no other crime scene they encountered. John drove past the scene slowly, observing the torrent of flapping yellow 'caution' tapes strung up everywhere, like an intangible web. Police units galore were scattered all around; forensic units applying their skills. Two ambulances were nearby, lights beaming, waiting on the order to move. It confused John a bit. Why hadn't all of this been taken care of the night before? _Unless, of course, these units were still in the process of cleaning up._

Parking on a curb a few yards away, John made a direct order to Dean to stay in the car as he exited. Going to the back of the trunk and dressing in one of his better shabby suits, he grabbed his detective's badge. One of the perks of the job: subterfuge. You could be anyone you wanted. It was way better than the spy movies. This particular badge John liked; it gave him more clearance than he would as being a nosy reporter…as he found out the hard way in his last case concerning a chupacabra.

Crossing the street, one particular person caught his eye. A stocky man in a disheveled cop's uniform sat in a slouch at the base of tree, gazing absentmindedly ahead with puffy eyes. Out of the swarms of police and EMT's, he was the most noticeable. John made his way over to him.

The man glanced up with bloodshot eyes when he felt the shadow above him. "Yes?" he asked in a croak. It was obvious the man was in an emotional wreck.

"Langton? Todd Langton?" John asked.

"Who are you?" Langton replied scornfully.

Pulling out the favorite badge, John answered, "John Winchester. I'm a detective—"

"We already have a detective on scene," Langton interrupted, wiping his nose after he let out a massive sniff.

The corners of John's mouth creased, "I'm a special kind of detective. Singer recommended me?"

Langton peered up at his guest quite vividly, a mix between surprise and embarrassment. "Ah, that kind of specialist. Thank God." He got to his feet, wiping the dirt and damp leaves off his behind, before shaking John's hand. "I hope you're good. You're going to need to be."

John didn't flinch at the comment. He's received worse less pressurizing and discouraging comments before. Walking alongside the distraught brother, Langton first brought him to the car that was yet to be included into forensic evidence. The body's pieces were already removed. All that was left was the metal fragments, maggots, and blood splatters, leaving a trail toward the gutter. John looked under the car and through it, memorizing every little out-of-ordinary detail there was.

So far, the brother was right. It was a some_thing._ No human had the manpower to burst through the ton of metal and rip its victim's arm and leg off.

After recalling most of the details with Todd, John said to him, "I'm sorry about your brother."

The stocky man's eyes glistened, developing another shade of red. "Yeah. That's why I called. I'm in no shape right now to go hunting. I need to look after Ted's wife Lucy. She's not much better off. I'd feel much better once this thing or whatever it was put down for good."

"Was Ted a hunter?"

Langton shook his head, running a hand slowly through short-cropped blonde hair. "No, he had no idea what was out there. I kept most of it from him on purpose, to keep him safe. So he could grow up normal. And what d'ya know? Some un-Godly thing gets to him anyway," his voice quivered.

"Again, I'm sorry. Do you have any idea what could have done this?"

"No, but I know from the state of Ted that it wasn't anything normal. Besides Dr. Redfield, who else would leave maggots and blowfly eggs around its dinner?"

"Haven't a clue," John said. "Are you sure your brother wasn't affiliated with something, ran into someone; anyone who could have had a grudge."

Langton shot him a sneer. "I know what you're thinking. And no, I went over all the basics too. I kept tabs on Ted on the side. I talked to him almost daily, and he never lies to me. It was only the other day that he confided to me about his affair."

John grew a dark look. "Todd that's cause right—"

"It's not. I already checked. No one knew about it, besides me. He only just did it two days ago. There wasn't any time for someone to find out," the man's voice rose, quivering like mad. "Besides, he was a good and loving person. In a small county like this, people would know if someone had a grudge. I think he just stumbled upon something and didn't know it."

The way Langton's voice dimmed to a mute, John decided not to press. Apparently the brother went about the procedure the same way he would have…but that didn't mean he wasn't still going to look into it later. Staring sternly into the man's blue eyes, he said, "Langton, I'll find it and I'll kill it. You have my word."

The brokenhearted brother before him nodded appreciatively, "Thank you."

"Alright, now as for the other victim."

Langton turned, guiding John away from the taped-off Cavalier and up towards the house, bypassing a couple of EMT's rolling out a gurney with a black-body bag. One of the men jerked his head at Langton, "Just now finished picking up the rest of her."

"Thanks Tommy," Langton acknowledged, then started speaking to John again, "Nothing much on the second vic. We don't even know yet if she was the first or second. Well, she was found much in the same state. Nothing to prove ID. But we did find that the house is registered to a Sylvia Rorshak."

"Who put in the call?"

"Neighbor. Said they last heard Ms. Rorshak calling out her bedroom window for her cat, then they heard her scream. Told Drew, the detective over there,"—he nodded to a blonde man in a black overcoat, talking to a chubby woman in white pajamas with several pink rollers in her dark hair—"they never heard someone scream like that. So they called immediately. I was the first to arrive on scene, and that's when I noticed Ted's car was here."

"Do you think this could be the mistress's house?"

"Could be. Ted didn't tell me the woman's name, but my money's on yes."

Strolling along the side of the house, John looked at the roof and saw three giant dark puddles, smears down the front of the house, and more red at the drain off. It looked as though something had a feast.

"What about Rorshak's background?" John asked earnestly, feeling a queasy feeling settle in his gut at the remains. A forensic analyst down near the drain off picked up a gnawed off finger with a silver ring on it and placed it into a ziplock bag.

"Yeah. Used to be a local around thirteen years back, but it appears she just moved back a couple weeks ago. I found some custody papers inside. She may have been trying to gain custody of a kid. But it has here a different name written on the papers. Might not have been hers."

"Is the father's name on them?"

"No. They weren't signed. They were dated only yesterday. So she had to've just gotten them."

Both men entered the house through the backdoor. John followed behind Langton through the perfectly kept kitchen, the clean livingroom quarters with only a TV in a corner and a floor pillow in the middle of a bunch of unopened moving boxes, and up the carpeted stairs. At the top was a small hallway leading towards a bedroom at the very end. Langton led him there, where three or four other police and forensic people were photographing and collecting samples.

_Must've called some of these analyst's from out of town_, John thought, knowing from past experiences that there wasn't this many analysts in one county.

The bedroom was a mess. Consisting of two dressers, a small closet, and a bed, the place was in a state of chaos like someone used it as a jungle-gym. Clothes were ripped, tatters laid scattered around the floor, the window, and the dresser's drawers. The comforter on the bed was also ripped, hanging off the bed where John noticed a long tear in the mattress. The beige curtains suspended by the broken window were tattered; one lay in a heap on the floor artfully decorated in red. A pool of coagulated blood sat before the window.

That queasy feeling John felt tripled when he noticed the stench around the room. It was the same he smelt inside the car, like raw heated sewage. He crossed over to the dresser and began to look around, noting the items left on the top. Several items were knocked over including a bright sapphire perfume bottle topped with a gold spray nozzle. Some of the smell lingering around the room belonged to the rank contents spilt on the mahogany top.

He turned to Langton. "I'm gonna need copies of the pictures you have here. Whatever detail I can get out of this room, I need everything you got."

* * *

Meanwhile, as John scoped out the scene, eyes popping for details, Sam woke with a start. His head popped up from behind the front seat, eyes closed, and face covered in dirt with half of a potato chip stuck to his cheek. Wiping off the grime, Sam sat back in his seat covering his eyes, groaning.

Dean didn't bother to look up from his _Muscle Car_ magazine. "Morning Sammy. How're ya feeling?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

Still groaning, Sam answered, "I hate you. Forever."

Chuckling, Dean retorted, "Hey it was time for you to get out of the books and enjoy the high life."

"Why are you yelling at me?" Sam cringed, bowing his head down into his lap.

"I'm not."

"Yes you are. Where's the Tylenol?"

Dean grinned sheepishly shaking the empty bottle. "Whoops!"

The grimace on the little brother's face increased, "Aww, why'd you do that?"

"Haha, sorry. Next time wake up before I do."

"Jerk," said Sam vehemently. After a moment or two, while his eyes were adjusting to the seemingly blinding white-light, he realized the change of location. "Where are we?"

"Crime scene."

Still looking around, Sam exclaimed, "Are we in another state?"

"Nope, still in the same town."

"Okay," Sam agreed offhand, then it finally registered, "Oh dammit. Not another hunt!"

"Eh, suck it up Sammy. It's not all that bad," Dean replied flipping the page over.

Sam made a childish face at him, "Whatever." He flattened the patch of hair that stood up at an angle, annoyed.

Constantly for the past couple of weeks, Sam had to flatten the odd patches. His hair just never set right after his father –whom he swore held him down- gave him a buzz cut. He absolutely dreaded having his hair cut. It never looked right as he swore his head had an egg shape to it. Luckily his hair grew back like Miracle Grow and so some of the curls had thankfully grown out.

He'd been paranoid of his hair not growing, since his brother (on one of their last prank wars) had put Nair in his shampoo. It wouldn't grow back for weeks. Only until big brother dear came clean, then did he change to a different shampoo.

A few minutes went by and the call of nature heralded. Not too eager to refuse the call, Sam made for the door. "Is there a restroom somewhere?"

"Dad said we had to stay in the car," Dean called out still reading his magazine.

"Yeah, tell that to my overactive bladder," Sam snapped back.

"I'm serious Sammy. You know how he is."

"Then I'm going to have to make a quick trip, cuz I'm about to burst…and I'm not using a soda bottle like last time."

Huffing in discontent, Dean rolled his eyes. "Okay. I think there's a convenience store about two blocks that way"—he pointed in the North direction (which was false)—"and you better make it quick. Cuz if Dad gets back before you do, then we're both shish-kabobs. So high tail it."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…whoa," Sam grumbled while exiting the car, then accidentally tripped over the curb and fell flat on his face.

Another series of giggles and snickers erupted from the older brother as Sam let out a string of quiet curses, shutting the door and taking off at a jog in the wrong direction. Dean's laughter amplified when not two minutes later, Sam came jogging back sending him a baleful glare, mouthing possibly strong curses at him, running in the opposite direction.

Not five minutes went by when, to Dean's horror, John was making a trip out to the Impala. Groaning in dismay, he prepared for the fireworks. Fiddling with the keys, his father hopped in and turned on the car. Taking a quick glance back, John made a double take in the backseat. A mighty look of disapproval flashed across the man's face and Dean groaned some more inside.

"Where's your brother?"

"Nature called," Dean answered.

"Didn't you tell him what I said?"

"I did. But Dad, this is Sammy we're talking about. 'Nuff said."

A long growl of annoyance was heard. Dean rolled his eyes upward praying Sam made a quick return. Cuz if not, the fireworks would be just the heralding trumpets to one insufferable hailstorm that was John's temper. Feeling the need to dampen the fuse, Dean asked, "So do we have a real case?"

John's gaze hardened. "Sure do. I'm not sure what we're dealing with just yet. My first guess is a ghoul, but they usually feed off the dead," John shook his head, as he pondered about what sort of monster they're dealing with. "But the victims definitely were alive, so it couldn't have been a ghoul. I don't know Dean. I just don't know yet."

"Do you need me and Sam to step in?"

"Oh yeah, most definitely. It's going to take a three-man team. So far we know the victims were a couple. And the man was cheating on his wife. Might be a lead right there. So we need to look into the backgrounds of both of them, their family history, and the backgrounds of anyone close to them. I'm gonna have to getcha brother on that….if he would hurry up."

Dean winced at hearing the rising temper in his father's voice. Peering into the side mirrors, his bout of worry quelled when he saw the stick-form of his brother hustling from up the street. "Here he comes."

Panting Sam reached the car, and groaned when he realized he was too late. Hopping into the backseat, he spouted off with, "You wouldn't believe my luck. Some convenience store," he complained. "First of all they barely had any Tylenol or any pain killer for that matter. Then they didn't have a public bathroom, so I had to go in the bushes around the back. And on top of that some nasty sick dude coughed in my face."

"Oh wah. Get over it," Dean replied rudely.

"What's your problem dude? Hi Dad."

"Sam," John growled. "Didn't your brother tell you not to get out?"

"I'm sorry sir, but I really had to go."

John gave a great big huff. "I don't have time to argue. Don't disobey me again."

Sam stayed quiet. _Like that is ever going to happen._ So he just nodded in reply, mainly because he was too tired and had a headache from Hell. He was never going drinking with Dean again!

* * *

It was nearing the twilight hours once the Winchesters retired from their "around-town" detective excursion. Since it was a Sunday afternoon, the local library was closed, delaying the quest for historical information through the county's archives. Resorting to following the basics, the three stuck to asking around the locals, particularly the seniors, if anything like the event has happened in the past. To their dismay, hardly any leads were developed with the locals ultimately concluding they were nutters.

John became weary about the dismal start. There was hardly any evidence, besides the maggot infestation, that reflected what sort of supernatural foe that was lurking about. Usually he'd have at least three or four leads by this time. The lack of Intel made this incredibly frustrating. He would have continued…but his ears couldn't handle the endless requests for food from his grumpy kids. He was thankful at one point, when he made a stop at a diner and they finally managed to shut up.

Sluggish still from their hangovers, the boys were filled with delight when John called time to head back to the motel. Since the creature attacked at night—both victims outside—it only seemed logical to head indoors.

Rubbing his eyes from the day, Dean plodded inside the motel room, where the strong scent of gun-oil and leather hit him like a brick. Breathing in the familiar smell, he flipped on the lightswitch. The dim lighting flared across the space, revealing the mess left from the night before. The bed sheets were mussed, jumbled; gun parts lay organized on the floor, and reports from earlier hunts lay unkempt on the table.

"Home sweet home," he muttered tiresomely, plunking his bag on the farthest motel bed. The bag hit the edge of the mattress, pulling down a portion of the comforter, revealing something hanging there on the side. Dean pulled a double take at the object. Realizing what it was, his vision turned to a shade of red.

Sam came in minutes later, carrying the totes his father ordered him to bring in, while John left to pay for another week's stay in the motel. Sam fumbled with the bags along with closing the door, accidentally dropping the arsenal duffel on his toe. "Son of a b—" he cursed hopping up.

"Sam, what is that?" Dean asked.

Catching the infuriating tone, Sam replied grimacing, "What is what?"

"That?" Dean pointed to the edge of the bed.

Looking past Dean over in the direction of their bed, Sam saw the item responsible for making Dean's blood boil. It was a stuffed animal: a dirty beige bunny, with a missing ear and button eye, and pink nose. A small smile lit up on Sam's face recognizing his favorite stuffed animal as a child. "Oh hey, it's Guppy."

"Don't 'hey it's Guppy'," Dean snapped, "We talked about this. You don't touch him."

"What are you talking about?"

"Do I have to spell it? You. Don't. Touch. Him. Remember?"

"Dean you told me that when I was like what?…five?"

"Yeah and the rules still apply. I told you not to mess with it."

"How could I forget?"

_Eleven years earlier, in a cabin somewhere located in the mountains of Colorado. Both a nine-year old Dean and a five-year-old Sam held onto a clean, whole Guppy, tugging the plush animal between each over fitfully. It was a battle against wills, both too stubborn to quit. _

"_Give it back Sammy," Dean yelled._

"_No. You didn't wan' it," little Sam protested._

"_I don't care. It's mine. Mom gave it to me. Not you."_

_Sam's little face scrunched in strain, tears building up in his expressive eyes. "But I want him."_

"_No!"_

"_Stop it Dean." Sam tugged harder on the fluffy ears._

"_Shut up twerp," Dean snarled. "Give. Him. Back." _

_With one great yank, the force tore off one of the ears and the five-year-old suddenly fell backwards onto his little butt. Both of the boys were stunned in that moment, trying to comprehend just what happened. Sam sat up lifting the torn ear in his grip to eye-level. More tears accumulated, his face cringing in abhorrence. Angrily he threw the severed ear at Dean and took off crying. _

_Equally angry over the fight, and the price that was paid, Dean, in a fit, threw the stuffed animal across the room, heeding to his own tears making tracks down his chubby cheeks._

Sam snapped back into reality when Dean pointed at him with the same sneer he had as a child. "I told you I didn't want you touching it. Mom gave that to me. Not you. Me."

Sam stood defiantly, shaking his head, tired of Dean's attitude concerning the stuffed animal. "Dude, why do you always get so freakin' testy when the subject of Mom comes up? You're twenty years old for Christ's sake and you're freaking out over a friggin' stuffed animal. Grow up, would ya?"

Dean's lip curled. "Don't you tell me to grow up ya little snot! When clearly someone got it back out for a particular reason."

"Dean I didn't touch it, alright. I don't know how it ended up my side of the bed, but it wasn't me."

"Right, and I'm just supposed to believe you."

"Obviously not, since I'm a lying bastard," Sam retorted sarcastically.

"Glad one of us admitted it," Dean shot back.

Sam donned an incredulous look, wondering if his sibling was still drunk. "What is wrong with you? Why are you pulling a selfish brat tantrum? And over Guppy! Tell me please. I figured you'd get this mad if something happened to the Impala, but over a stuffed animal? Please cuz I am dying to know."

"Alright fine, if you don't care then I'll just get rid of the damn thing," Dean said, snatching the bunny up by the ears, and began to pull its head off.

A horrible pang flared across Sam's stomach. He could feel his heart literally jump up his throat. In that moment, his mouth had lost total control. "No Dean! Stop! Leave him alone!"

Dean stopped. Glaring menacingly, he uttered, "See. Told ya." Symmetrical to the past, he chucked Guppy angrily across the room. Strolling past an irritated Sam, he said, "I'm going for a walk."

"You do that. And grow a couple brain cells while you're at it, and stop acting like a kid."

His brother said nothing in reply. Instead he just walked out the door. Sam fumed, breathing deeply. Once the door slammed shut, the rattle set off a couple of deep coughs. Regaining his composure, Sam also in a fit, kicked the side of the wall, resulting in another searing pain throbbing in his toe. Hopping around, waiting for the pain to wane, he saw Guppy on the floor by the window lying on its head. Walking over, he picked it up.

He stood there, just looking at the old stuffed toy; admiring it because he had totally forgotten about Guppy. The animal had brought back so many good and unwelcome memories. It was there through all the times of strife, when Sam sometimes felt very alone. He could understand his brother's temper regarding it. It was a gift Mary had given to Dean as an infant. Only he refused to hang onto it shortly after Mary had passed. Perhaps it stood as a reminder of her death and what he missed about her. Either way, he gave up the rights to it.

Once the reminiscing session was over, instead of putting it on Dean's rightful side of the bed, Sam stowed the emblem of his childhood into his duffel bag.

* * *

The frosty air bit at Dean's skin like brambly thorns. He shivered a bit, shaking gently in his father's leather jacket, standing on the edge of the woods across the street from the motel. Obviously still languid from the day and from the previous night's activities, he was in no mood to go for a long stroll. Opting to stand alone, in the dark, under a full moon, allowing him the time and space he needed to cool down.

Yeah, he was a hot head. The boiling hot temperature stimulated by the argument that had transpired a few minutes ago was cooling. His breaths still came in long deep pants, as every part of him just wanted to rip into something. Sam was a good candidate.

Dean absolutely hated it when Sam would lie to him. All the kid had to say was, "yeah I got him out, because I don't know, I wanted to" or something like that. At least have the damn balls to admit to taking the stuffed animal out of their one box of storage.

He hadn't seen Guppy in years. He knew he shouldn't have gotten so riled up over something so unnecessary. But the stuffed toy just brought back too many bad memories.

Really he could care less if Sam still had kept it around. But the little brat shouldn't have lied to him. It wasn't necessary and it only pissed him off even more. That was one thing he would have to beat out of the kid one day.

It was unclear to him how long he stayed out there on the edge of the forest. Time was not of the issue. Maybe his freezing fingers were, but he just needed some time to cool and vent. Maybe Sam would apologize when he got back in. But that was a fat chance. Sam would never apologize for something so stupid, especially when he instigated the feud. That was something else he'd have to beat out of him as well.

Suddenly he felt the hairs on the back of his neck at a standstill. His instincts kicked into overdrive, sending a tingling feeling in his gut. As if on cue, he heard a faint rustling amongst the shadows. His eyes widened. It was only then he realized that he had no weapon, no way of calling for help, and there was a badass creature on the loose that took the cover of dark. _Mistake number one._

The rustling from behind grew louder. The bottom of his stomach dropped like a lead weight. And it was in that second, Dean resorted to the traditional part of survival: he took off at a dead run.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five:**

**Barney and Friends all sing "Chow time".**

Gaylord Hymen sat at his neat desk, satisfied with his lunch: Caesar Salad containing more croutons than lettuce. Plus a glass of his special _Day-eraser_, as he liked to call it, he and only the janitor Fredrick knew he kept locked in the cabinet under his desk. As long as he continued to serve dear old Freddie a weekly supply of the JD, then did he have his cooperation. Only after today he would have to run and buy some more juice.

Today was a special day. A time to celebrate with Jim, Jack, and Jose. Oh, and let's not forget our special pal from Mexico.

Mr. Hymen felt good. Today he had managed to prompt the deal to the town's officials to clear off half the county's estate and secure a spot to build his growing corporation. It was an offer he knew the officials wouldn't disagree to. Billions of dollars was in the works and **Hymen's Paper and Supplies** was on the move. Of course, firstly owning a business would have to start out small, and then expand. Soon if he had his way, shops would be lining up all over America for cheap, yet durable office supplies. Everyone needed paper. Businesses. Schools. Even aspiring writers. If he had his way, his now small mill would become a class-A corporation, setting up more mills and factories in his name all over the country. But before his dream could be finalized, this measly town had to go.

He was egotistical, sure. Progression was the key to a happy life of success. Someone had to be the bad guy, if his company were to expand. It was like in the pioneer days. Expansion led to advancement. Advancement led to capitalism. And capitalism certainly led to the high life and many years of delight.

Being a black man, he had his time of strife in his quest for success. Having grown up in an affluent home, with his father as his role model—Clifford Hymen, the Vice-President of a company called **Yorks**. A tailoring company that created suits mainly for the business-class—the standard price starting at a _thousand_—before the man suffered a stroke. Gaylord knew the ins and outs of business. Being the only colored kid in all his private schools and college, he endured his fair share of taunts and Gay jokes stimulating from his name (mainly because the scoundrels had nothing else on him). But he took those taunts and snide, derogatory remarks and used them to his advantage, to make him into a no-nonsense sort of person. It helped. Especially when he rubbed it into the white folks faces when he graduated the top of his class. Unfortunately, his awards made him into a complete and total asshole.

His father, God rest his soul, drilled into his head as a child, leave no room for mistakes. When an opportunity is handed to you, you take it without remorse. In order to survive in this world of business, put the nice guy to rest and take charge. Were War Generals ever nice? No. They couldn't afford to be. They had to do what they had to do to get the job done. The same goes for corporate execs.

So now the core problem was completely wiping out half of Greenton, starting with the school. He felt no pity. The school's population wasn't even five-hundred. So it wasn't a big loss to force the kids to go to the next town. Besides with a small town's curriculum; demographics show that students attending small schools with small budgets learn the basic core classes; just enough to learn how to read and graduate. The kids would be better off at a bigger school.

Sure, wiping out half the town, he'd be putting hundreds of people out of their current occupations. But he would be opening new ones, where they'd have no choice but to work for him. In the corporate world, it was what had to be done. More employees equaled more supplies produced and distributed, thus more profit was made. He grinned greedily. Bigger profit was a good thought, indeed. When the town's mayor walks in tomorrow and signs the deeds, then everything would be right for the pickings. With the amount he was offering, the town official would be insane to decline. It was against his inner banker to offer a good $2.5 million to demolish half the town…but you have to spend money to make money.

He grinned again. $2.5 million was more than this small town had ever hoped to achieve. There were no small traces of doubt that the deal was in the bag.

He had a lot to plan.

First off, it would cost thousands to call in the local construction workers to begin _Project Demolition_. He'd much rather eat his _Jet's_ hat to go with the locals, but it was cheaper. More than likely they'd lay down strike. But that was why he was in this business. As he said time and time again, it costs money to make money. So a little down payment here and a little down payment there, and sure enough he'd make sure he'd have their full cooperation. It was all part of the game. Ya just have to know how to play it.

Secondly, there were the press conferences, the advertising, and the foreclosing. If a lot of the town's businesses were going to be put under, now was the time to herald the news, give them time to officially close. And if they refused? Well…nothing, but a good wrecking ball can't take care of. He had employees to deal with the dirty work. If they could persuade easily—which most of his surveyors were fairly good at—then easy does it. The mill would be no problem in establishing when it had the all clear.

And thirdly, for a decent sized facility, it was time to contact a few engineers and architects. Along with inventory and planning the blueprints, with time, his Mill (and his way to the high life) would be in order. After his lunch—which he mostly ate the croutons—he signed a few more documents, detailing about the future plans. The clown-like smile plastered over his beefy face never seemed to wane, and he let out a haughty chuckle. _Yes_, he thought, _the high life was nearly in his grasp._

The sun had fallen behind the dewy trees and the dark shade of night took its place. There weren't any clouds, no stars, nor was there the moon out. It was like a black curtain was draped on the outside of his office windows. Gaylord took no notice of it. He was signing away, document after document. There was so much to do.

His wife probably had supper ready hours to go. But if she was smart (sometimes he wondered if she had any sense at all), she'd wait to cook dinner—even if it was now past Eight at night. Sheila wasn't the type to allow a made or home-cook to clean the house or cook their meals. She was fairly traditional. A well-to-do homemaker, he sometimes called her behind her back. Heaven forbid if he said it to her face. She hated the term, even if that was what she was.

But even so, she knew he liked to work late. Sometimes he'd do it on purpose, mainly so he wouldn't listen to her nag. It never seemed to fail. She'd always find something to complain about. That's why he always kept a bottle of Gin hidden inside his nightstand. There was never a time he wouldn't need it.

_Oh shit_! His eyes shot up from his work. Thinking about the unpleasantness his wife often exhibited made him realize what the day was. The fifth: Sheila's birthday. He forgot! Not only was he not home early as he had promised, but he hadn't bought a gift for her. It wasn't like she deserved it, but he supposed it was the proper thing to do. Only at this hour, hardly any decent jewelry or flower shops were opened. He grinded his back teeth and began to gnaw on the inside of his cheek, a nasty habit he took on when thinking, and also a habit that Sheila told him repetitively to knock off…another reason for her to nag._ Ha, jewelry and flowers? The best gift, in her mind, was if he ended up dead right now and she inherited the estate._ He laughed at that. She'd be out the door and hello to wife number two before that happened.

Even if wife number two was on the forefront of his mind, it wasn't an option he'd procure tonight.

Then as if a light bulb lit up over his sleek bald head, he thought of an idea. Opening his desk compartment, he pulled out an opal-colored bottle he happened to obtain from an old man in the street earlier that day. It wasn't like he bought it from the guy—no he had internet and servants for that. No, it was misfortune that he accidentally bumped into the dumpy sort of person, complete with farmer trousers and greasy skin.

Instead of apologizing, he ignored the protesting glare and strode on. Only until the geriatric obviously felt the need to get the last word in, did he turn around. The man dramatically threw every curse and insult at him, letting out spittle, raising his stout fist. It was all a garbled mess in Gaylord's opinion. None of the coot's tirade made sense, until he threw the small bottle at him. Luckily his baseball days as a child came into play and he caught it in a pitcher's grip. Giving the man a tactless gratitude by raising the bottle of liquid, he carried on back to the office.

Before he settled into his overly cushioned chair, curiosity about the bottle's contents won out over all other to-do items. Deep down, he was hoping it was liquor. Being in an old scraggly man's possession, what else could it be? Pulling off the black capsule cover, his alcohol-craved yearning came to a desolate end. It turned out to be a spray bottle. He gave it a good shake, learning that it was a type of gelatinous liquid. Possibly perfume. Still his curiosity kept on calling. He sprayed the contents out in a mist and snarled in disgust. The liquid smelt like old-fashioned cologne, maybe a century-old due to the mustiness of it. He frowned in disappointment stowing the contents inside his desk drawer. Somehow he had to get rid of that.

His original plan was maybe to use it as a trade-off gift to Freddie. He wouldn't mind the smell; probably would thrive in it. But now he liked the idea of giving it to his wife better. Of course, she would be spit-balling mad. He could claim innocence: say it smelt fine to him. But at least it would get her off his back about forgetting. This was time for another chuckle. Life was actually going his way.

Sitting the bottle back on the table, he went back to work when a horrible odor issued in the room. Gaylord urped at it. It was so sudden and so vile; his gag reflex worked overtime. He looked around wondering why now it had begun to stink. He glanced at the bottom of his shoes, around the desk, around the other carpeted spaces. Nothing. No stinking pile of crap. No upturned trashcan. There was no valid explanation for the stench, other than his bodies' expulsion. And it sure wasn't him, his bowels were quiet!

Still cringing, he pressed on the com, "Freddie. Freddie come in."

No answer. Why not? It was past Eight. Freddie typically left the office when he did. So where was the man? (Little did Mr. Hymen know, Freddie was zonked out in his chair, sleeping off the rest of the whiskey his boss so kindly gave to him that morning.)

He pressed the button for the janitorial desk again, "Freddie if you're there? I need you to come upstairs and check out a malodorous stink. It's somewhere inside my office, most notably under my desk. Bring as much _Febreeze_ as you can," he paused. "In fact, bring the whole box. This is some nasty shit."

The sluggish old geezer still had not answered. Gaylord wondered if he really was off. But then there should have been someone in this building? He pressed down again. "I don't care who's down there. I need someone up here NOW!"

As he sat back in his chair, the smell grew worse. He coughed a little. Taking up the perfume bottle, he spritzed some of it in the air and under his desk, trying to overpower the strength of the rancidity. The perfume was a whole helluva lot better than the horrible rotting smell of infected flesh. He coughed again. Now the office rank with both horrid smells.

Okay, that was enough for tonight. Perhaps it was a sign that enough work was done and it was time to go home to a brooding wife. Feeling the festering fatigue behind his eyes, he took a hint. Collecting his paperwork hastily, stacking it neatly as fast as he could, due to him holding his breath. The smell was at an all time high, making his eyes water. He bent down to retrieve his suitcase, not at all noticing the black swirling vapor.

It was all over before he knew it.

There was a tiny hint of a growl, before Hymen felt a slimy hand grab his wrist, pulling him down beneath the desk. Nothing was seen. Nothing was heard, except for Hymen's death-defining screams. Blood and guts splattered up and out, showering out like a busted fountain. And when the janitorial staff would come in later that night, all they would find that was left of their prestigious boss was a gnawed off hand, the bright diamond off his college ring glinting in red.

Turns out the wife got her perfect birthday present after all.

* * *

Wednesday morning dawned not so pleasant for the youngest Winchester, marred by yet another explosive argument with his father. Luckily the door still remains hinged and in tact.

Exhausted, taut, and otherwise in a bad mood, Sam sat at the school's cafeteria table stationed far in the back. His head fell onto his crossed arms, a long tired sigh escaping past his mouth. All-nighters were bitches, especially with over-anxious fathers who didn't give a damn about school.

Coteries of students all hung in groups, at the rest of the tables in the small space and along the walls, quibbling about whatever electrifying gossip floating around. The fluctuating volumes pulsed hard on his eardrums. He delved deeper into the confines of his jacket-covered arms, seeking to lessen the noise. On a day like this, his inured ability to withstand loud commotions was put on hold. Any other day, he could handle the gossip warmongers, gunshots, and his dad's typical dynamic vocals.

Not today.

It wasn't like Sam was completely surprised by his father's earlier outburst. So far, his entire adolescence was spent in one long session of arguments and angst-ridden renditions fueled by opposing forces exhibited by him and his father. The way he figured, it was inevitable. Since this particular hunt began, John was oversensitive, eager, and seemingly in a perpetual state of irascibility. When Dean wasn't around, it was only appropriate that he release his negative frustrations on the only one around.

The previous night merely was the forerunner heralding the maelstrom that was his father's agitation.

News of two new murders emerged. A mailman bit it Monday night: two days after the last two murders. The county garbage truck found the pieces the following morning. The poor trash-collector is now seeking therapy after a toe fell down his open shirt.

The newest murder was brought to John's attention a few short hours before midnight. Gaylord Hymen, a business exec, was confirmed killed in his office; the man's body remnants found under his desk. The authorities were stumped, as the door and windows were locked. Neither footprints, nor fingerprints were found. Hardly any evidence pertaining to the murderer was established.

John, non-stop, paced about the motel floor, deep in thought; meticulously running over previous details he recovered. His face contorted in mottled confusion; a small change compared to the 'you-talk-to-me, you-die' expression he carried of late. Sam had tried hard in not distracting him by collecting his stack of homework papers.

Unfortunately, John broke from his pondering reverie at the rustling of the papers. Turning in his youngest direction, he barked, "Sam, what are you doing?"

Sam knew he should have lied, but the answer rolled right off his tongue before he had time to consider. "Homework."

The man's stare intensified. Huffing, he snapped, "Instead of doing that, why don't you do something useful?"

Gazing incredulously at the man, Sam replied, "Like what?"

"Oh. I don't know. Research?"

"Research what? We've already done as much as we could," Sam argued.

Shaking his head at the impudence, John said, "There's always something. Come on, you're the only one here that's not with the program. We just need to find it. I need you to hack into some more of the town's archives. I need detailed information on all the people here."

"Dad we already checked. We already did all that. I just finished looking at the background on the office guy an hour ago. And there was nothing. He didn't know any of the others, nor was there anything else you asked on him. No one knows a thing around here," Sam responded. He didn't need to continue looking for something he had already done. There wasn't any time for that. His homework was due the next day. If he were to have a good chance to make it on the Principal's List (to at least have a chance at getting into college) that homework needed to be finished.

John glared. "And you think that means we should just…give up," he countered.

"I didn't say that."

"Good. Because young man, all that matters right now is this damn hunt. I know you don't like it. But frankly, it's time to grow up. We all have to do things we don't want to do. And as long as you live under my roof, you do as I say. I want a report of anyone with violent backgrounds; anyone with a bad history. Plus I need some historical accounts on this town. See if—"

"But that could take all night," Sam nearly shrieked. Shock pounded through his frayed nerves, as his dad's list kept growing. His heart hammered painfully against his ribcage. This was not what he wanted to hear.

"Then it'll take all night," John sneered.

Sam huffed. "Well…at least let me finish my essay. It's due tomorrow. I'm almost done. That way no one would suspect anything if I don't turn it—"

"I don't care what anyone would think of when it comes to your stupid schoolwork. That's not what is important right now," John interrupted, triumphant in muting his son. "Now, get to work. I want an hourly update."

Unfortunately, an all-nighter was what happened for all of them. John had left not long after their argument to scope out the cemetery. He returned just before it was time to leave for school, ready to henpeck anyone within sight. With Sam heaving on his backpack heading out the door, John found his target.

His father demanded that he stay from school this one day. In his taut and overtaxed mind, Sam was capable of setting off like a mini-volcano. With smoke emitting from the summit, Sam stood his ground. He was aware that his father was stressed to the point of bursting at the slightest pinprick. It only seemed fit that he held the needle. From past experiences, if he heeded to the one request, it would mean indefinitely.

Besides air, school was the singular most important thing that he craved, that kept his head from spinning (well…other than his brother from time to time). It kept him grounded, and not fallen into depression at how miserable his life was shaping up to be. He hated to think how selfish he must be for not wanting to partake a hundred percent in this hunt, but after all these years of hard work, he couldn't let it waste away on one more day. He already missed enough days as it was.

After suffering through an all-nighter in gaining meaningless reports of any criminal Greenton had listed, plus finishing his English homework on the side, Sam was only in the mood to just lie there at the cafeteria's table and keel over. No matter what his father said or did, he was adamant to attend class. If ever he wanted to escape this life of hunting when he turned eighteen, then school was a must.

A strong pressure suddenly built up behind his left eye. Rubbing it raw, another pressure built up behind his nasal. A clear sign his sinuses were acting up. Just add that to the list!

Over the past couple of days, Sam had been feeling a bit…off. Fatigue set in, frequently. Periodically bouts would strike, and he'd hardly have the spit to keep his eyes open. His appetite had changed drastically. That was saying like he had a major one, but nevertheless he just wasn't hungry as much. Plus a terrible flare coursed through his chest. It'd happen periodically, hardly worth noticing…but when it did, _Great Googamooga!_ It hurt! And now he was acquiring an endless cough.

The harsh coughing was the first sign. First there was a couple mucus-inducing hacks: hardly worth the notice. Then soon a torrent of throat-pulverizers tore through him like a sledgehammer smashing into a log. But no one took any notice. The other two were way too involved to notice anything. Hell, a meteor could crash right next to their shabby motel, and they wouldn't have noticed: take it as an unneeded distraction.

These signs seemed to have hit overnight. He couldn't see fit to point these things out to his family. They had enough stress built on top of them as it was. Winchesters always took the brunt of their health upon themselves. _Suck it up and deal with it._ Especially now. With the way his father felt towards him, the man more or less would tell him to take an aspirin and get back to work. The man certainly was a peach!

Dean, especially now, wouldn't have taken any notice. Hell, if he were dancing around engulfed in flames, Dean still wouldn't have given him the time of day. His sour mood over Guppy only grew after his little frightening episode Sunday night.

His brother, in his infinite wisdom, returned back to the room not long after their argument, slamming the door shut in desperate haste as though the fiends of Hell were after him. Next, all Dean was capable of was gawking out the windowpane like a gopher popping out of its hole…as if searching for something. He tried to act coolheaded—obviously his machismo at stake—shrugging and speaking calmly and fluently. But the wild look in his eyes and the tiny beads of perspiration off his neck and head clearly indicated that he was spooked.

John attempted for several minutes to elicit a clear response from him. He immediately went for the gun and the flashlight when Dean revealed his gut instinct kicking in. Ordering for the boys to stay in the motel, John went out to the edge of the woods, and searched, and searched…and searched some more.

After so long, John returned. From the disappointed expression he exhibited, his boys easily read that he was eagerly anticipating that the "rustling" was the so-called "prize of the hunt"; his nerves wiry for a quick end. But the source of Dean's solicitude only turned out to be a raccoon nestling with its young.

It was then Sam burst out in tears from laughing so hard…and Dean turned an angry scowl in his direction, then later dumped the entire bag of arsenal out and blamed it on Sam. _He was such a killjoy sometimes!_

Mostly Dean sat finishing the rest of the artillery that needed to be cleaned, instead of helping Sam with the research. It wasn't like he was incapable of reading texts or something of that caliber. It was more like a, 'you pissed me off, you're on your own' deal. Dean hadn't talked to him since, still fuming over the stuffed animal incident (or possibly still mad at him for making the comment that he was "too dimwitted to contrive any idea for the hunt" in anger after he was forced to pick up all the fallen guns and place em' back into the duffel); or perhaps still embarrassed about his little scare.

Either way, his brother was one stubborn mule. Every time Dean would get into one of his moods, Sam swore it took a good two weeks to get over it. He was such a child!

A particular humming chorused in his ears, luring him back to the blackened boundaries of sleep. That was until the team of soccer players strutted by, chanting, crowing, and running amuck cheering for the upcoming Friday night's championship match. As quick as it came, the team's ruckus faded within the backdrop, but the damage was already done. He was awake.

At that moment, all Sam wanted to do was scream, yell, explode, pitch a fit; criticize everyone. Possibly because he felt so repressed and angst-ridden, felt trapped in a life not of his choosing; eloped to a destiny that he was introduced to unwillingly…_til Death do us part!_ Man, those raging hormones are going to kill him one day. If he couldn't take his anger out on the ones he felt were responsible, anyone else seemed like a good candidate.

But…he just couldn't. Reality struck home again and alerted him to the fact that if he took out his anger on whomever, that would cost him more friends in his very limited 'friend' bank. He wasn't willing to take that risk. Besides, why take all his frustrations out on them? Doing so would lead to ultimate loneliness. And that daunting concept of loneliness was what kept his mouth shut!

_Good god, he needed a shrink!_

A great force unexpectedly came from behind, shoving his chest forward into the table's edge. The next second, he felt two big slaps on his back spurring a forced groan. The perpetrator rustled his hair and sat down with a noisy plop on the table's bench. "Yo stick-boy."

Hearing the high-pitched boisterous voice, a small smile curled on his lips. "Hi Leann," he responded in his arms.

"Hey 'ewe'-self, Sam-o. Are ewe excited for Friday's game?"

"Sure," he replied monotonously. Yeah, he was excited, but at the moment there was no way he could express it.

His friend bounced jovially in her seat. "Golly, I can't wait. Brian's going to kick some Driller bootie!"

Sam smiled again, burrowing deeper into the crook of his elbows. Leann, his best friend of the past six months or however long he had been at this school, was an unusually high-spirited person. She befriended him on the first day he arrived at Greenton High, Home of the Red Devils. (I know right, how fitting?) It was hard to forget the time at lunch where he sat at the back table alone, like he had done so many times before, and then suddenly she invited him over to sit with her.

Classified as a large person, with a chubby face and bushy hair—that somewhat resembled a lion's mane—Leann seemed to be pretty average. Although average looking, she was among the only people who had bundles of energy. There was always something to talk about with her, and there was hardly a dull moment between them. Sam always looked forward to lunchtime, finally having someone to talk to, and not being viewed as the lonely geek. Even if the girl obsessively went on about her crush "Brian Lieverman", the Soccer Team captain, and the most popular guy in the entire school.

"I'm sure," Sam said. He was too tired to say much else.

"Oh come on Sam-o. 'Ewe' gotta be countin' down the minutes like I am," Leann squealed.

Sam nearly laughed again. It never failed. Leann had a unique way of saying 'you'. It always came out as 'Ewe', like a female sheep. And sometimes he'd notice her pronounce things differently. For example, if she said _Orchestra_, it'd sound more like _Or-kest-tra_. And if she happened to say _Specific_, it sound like _Pacific_.

There were others he made a note of. Only he stayed quiet about it. It wasn't until she made mention of it herself, that they had something to laugh about. She even joked that she should make her own dictionary, because sometimes she'd mix words up and create new ones like Chillax (only Sam wasn't going to tell her that the term had already been made) or Shidoggie, or Bomchikawahwah (he didn't have the heart to tell her this one was taken too) and others. He would never tell Dean this, but some of his best times were with Leann and creating new imposing words, especially for curse words. Like fudgecrackers, or snarkleberries.

Leann cast him a concerned eye, a small frown forming on her face. "Hey 'ewe' ok?"

Sam slowly lifted his head. His arms were beginning to feel like Jello. "Yeah," he breathed, "Yeah, just tired, s'all. Had to pull an all-nighter to finish Shuester's essay."

"Oh," she cocked an eyebrow. "'Ewe' do know Mr. Shue pushed the due date back to Friday, right?"

Sam groaned. _What? _"Huh?"

"Yeah, he said it…oh that's right ewe missed that class. Sorry buddy. I thought 'ewe' knew."

He groaned some more, concealing his face into his arms, in case he did cry. That heavy feeling was building behind his eyes again and his chest hurt even worse than it did the night before. He coughed to ease the growing tickle in his throat. _Well, at least it was done. Of course! Of course! Because his father pulled him out every so often, he had to miss that particular class. _

"Hey cool down there bud," Leann rubbed the back of his head, bending down to give him a little hug. That was always something else about Leann. She was real affectionate, totally careless for personal space, and didn't care who knew it. "It's not the end of the world. If 'ewe' want? I can talk to s'nurse and see if she'll let 'ewe' lie down for a couple hours."

_That was nice of her. _

Sam lifted his head up again. "No that's okay. I'll try to make it through."

"Oh okay. 'Ewe sure?"

"Yeah," he piped, "it's not like this is my first all-nighter. I'll be okay. I might be a little sluggish in Gym, but I'll be fine."

Ugh…_Fine_. There's that word again. _Fine_. No matter what the situation is, everything is always fine. He was really beginning to hate the term. It wasn't a bad suggestion that he go to the nurse, but how would his father see that as. Just another excuse probably. No, the best thing to do was to get through the day, and hope both his Dad and his brother were in a good mood.

"Alright, see ewe at lunch," Leann said hopping up from her seat like a Jack-in-the-box, when the bell rang. "Don't forget the 'PBJ's."

"I know, I know. With bananas, I'll make sure Colby the lunchlady gets it for ya."

"Cool beans. Ta-ta," she called traipsing off to class.

* * *

The morning, the afternoon, and now the evening was passing in one great procession. Time had flown by so quickly; it was like the sandman of time had forgotten to take up his post in setting the meter. As the minutes ticked by, the more John became flustered. Climbing out from the car, he gazed with trepidation at the receding sun. He wondered as the celestial body departed, would there be another murder tonight?

Days went by.

_Days!_

Gone; Wasted; Diminished without a single decent nicety identifying what the foul beast roaming around the town was.

This was unheard of! Surely by now, there was something? Some lead. Some person with a history. Some other clue besides blood and half-masticated carcasses. Was there another turn they forgot to take? One less place they didn't think to look? What?

So far the area was clean. No hoodoo. No spellwork. No history of curses. The area's history was clean. John and Dean relentlessly scoured every inch of the cemetery, noted the patterns of the moon, the cycles of the seasons, or any odd anomaly occurring. So far…zilch! No one in town had ever recollected any happenstances like the one now from ever taking place, thus leading to the conclusion this is the monster's first go-round. The research portion was privy to the same exasperation, as no other town in all of America had unsolved mysteries such as this.

The case was at a dead-end…along with his patience.

After briefly skimming through the business owner's crime scene, and then spending most of the day at the hospital's morgue, studying the remainder of the corpses, only one thing was concluded: there was no pattern. An unsettling turmoil raged within him, shouting that he picks up the pace. The creature or whatever it was munching on people was picking up its pace.

He was becoming all the more upset that someone else bit the big one and still no real leads were established. None of the victims had horrible backgrounds. No one, as far as he knew, meddled in some form of supernatural curse or ritual. All the victims had different possessions, and all had died in different manners. There was nothing to figure out, except what this thing was and where would it strike next? And John knew neither.

He didn't want to admit this, but perhaps he was losing his touch. Even with the three Winchesters, maybe it was time to call in some help. But whom could he trust? There were only a select few he trusted, with hunting and with the knowledge of his kids, and they all had missions of their own at the moment.

Wheeling around, he entered his current home, to find his oldest son on the computer, and his youngest to be missing.

"Where's Sam?" he asked, his voice raspy from overuse.

Dean jutted his head toward the bathroom door. "Bathroom. Did you find anything?"

John shook his head solemnly. "No. All the remaining parts, as best as I could tell, were definitely chomped on. This thing has a set of teeth, and one helluva powerful bite."

He crossed over to the dresser tiredly and threw down the Impala's keys. Shirking off his jacket, he went on noticing Dean's _eager-for-intel_ expression. "The bones were bitten cleanly through. Also, marks on the skin may suggest that this thing has nails or claws of some type. Like it held them down and started eating. So basically, this thing is hungry. And I don't like it, but those aren't going to be the only people, not until we can figure this out."

Dean sat up straighter as his Dad slumped down on the motel bed. "So what all do we know?" he began to enumerate out loud, "All this thing leaves is just a bloody mess that needs a mop. It leaves behind maggots and a God-awful smell. The victims had no real MO's. Soooo…hymph, I got nothing."

"That makes two of us," John huffed, "I thought possibly it might be a Rugaroo. But I ran it by Travis, and no, if it was there would be a helluva lot more bodies, and nothing left of the victims at all. But I'm not ruling it out."

John let out a huge breath.

"What do you want us to do?" Dean asked.

"I don't know yet. And we looked everywhere, right? The cemetery? The sewer? Run-down houses? What are we missing?" It became clear that he was speaking to himself. Shaking his head, rethinking of the argument he had with his other son early that morning, John said, "Might need to take Sam out of school for good on this one."

"Uh, Dad. That's probably not a good idea," Dean stated.

"Why not?"

"You know how important school is to that kid. If you take him out, you're going to have a fight of your life on your hands."

John scowled. "Let him try. School shouldn't be more important over these peoples' lives. And neither is following my orders."

Dean raised his hands in defense. "You're right. But I'm serious. I think Sammy's right. If you take him out again, the school's going to get suspicious. We dealt with this before Dad. And it didn't end pretty. And then what?"

"So what're you suggesting?" John spoke vehemently, "I abide by him? We need him for this. I told you, this is going to take a three man team—"

"I know that, okay? I know. But at least let him go tomorrow. I'm pretty sure he was saying he had this big-ass test that he can't miss. Let him do that, and if we haven't figured this out by then, take him out on Friday."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you're going to have another big problem on your hands other than the sack of shit going around town. If you haven't noticed, Sam is also getting to that point where he might leave us Dad."

"No, he won't," John dismissed.

"Dad! Trust me! I know that kid," Dean exclaimed. "Don't underestimate him. And it wouldn't be so bad if you actually gave him encouragement from time to time, maybe ask him to help instead of order. You might be surprised how willing he'll help if you do."

The infamous John Winchester stoic expression never faltered. Dean became a little unnerved by it.

"We'll see."

"Okay," Dean agreed.

The two bickered for so loud and for so long, neither one of them knew that the youngest in the bathroom was on his knees, struggling to breathe.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six:**

**Partners in Crime and Nosy Nurses**

The next school day dragged by slower than a slug sliding across a dirty road. It was taking all that Sam had to stay awake. Occasionally a plastic-like film obscured his vision and he had to blink in a rapid cession to clear it. He lost count of how many times. As the day progressed, a cumbersome weight built behind his lids. And all he could do was blink, concentrating on keeping his head up. And he was cold. Often a spine-tingling chill raced up and down his back. It only added to the stress of remaining upright.

He couldn't understand it. All-nighters used to be no problem to him. Very rarely does he ever need sleep. Normally he'd have enough energy to stay awake for three days straight.

But not today.

Something was going on. The coughing attack that rendered him helpless to his knees the night before took a while to get over. It was so spontaneous; there was no way to see it coming. Once it began, it felt like a jack-hammer thrusting upward into his chest, as if his body was purposefully trying to cough up his lungs.

He refused to leave the bathroom for a while. It felt like his airway was constricted, much like someone suffering through an asthma attack. It scared the holy Hell out of him. Once it relented, it left him stricken, paranoid for another assault. He didn't think he could survive through it. John and Dean had no knowledge of it. And it was going to stay that way. His father didn't need another excuse to be angry with him.

There wasn't any point in paying attention to the lectures. His mind said "screw it" a long time ago. His cheek sagged on his knuckles, his mind in a daze whilst Mr. Shuester went on about the political confrontations of Eighteenth century France. How it related to English, no one could guess. The wiry man slung his hands wildly around, excited over what he thought was a riveting lecture. All of the rest of the class felt differently. Hardly was there a pupil whose head wasn't resting on their arms or doodling idly on their desktop.

The mindless daze went on and his teacher's voice faded in the backdrop. Suddenly it felt very warm. Sam looked up and saw the bright sun shine through the window. The beam of light lit up the room, the tops of the desks shining like polished pearls. The place had suddenly become quiet and all the students' attentions somehow were alert, all facing the front. Sam refused to look around. The beam of sunlight was comforting. Any minute he wished he could get out of this ridiculous lecture and hardened desk and go lie down. Sleep wasn't such a bad idea. Then like it was a thought, a pillow suddenly popped on the adjacent desk.

Sam eyed it intrigued. _That was odd._

The classroom door opened. Loud footfalls of leather-clad soles were heard clanking up from behind the desks. Sam didn't bother to see who it was. He didn't care as he was far more interested in that pillow, shaped oddly like the one he was currently using in the motel. Funny enough, the teacher hadn't acknowledged the intruder's presence either.

Sam was brought out of his musings when someone poked his shoulder. Whirling around in his seat, the corners of his mouth creased into a smile when he saw the tall outline of his quirky brother. "Dean?"

The older brother mirrored his smile. "Yep."

"Why are you here?"

Dean shrugged, tugging on the shoulder of his jacket. Sam lifted easily out of the seat. "Come on. Dad says we're taking a break for awhile. Get this. He said we're going fishing. Can you believe that?"

Sam eyed his brother wondrously, trudging alongside him at a brisk pace out of the classroom. He didn't question why the teacher hadn't spoken up about leaving without a note. Granted, he didn't care. "Dad fishing? This I gotta see."

Dean wrapped a long arm around his scrawny shoulders. "Yeah no kidding. Come on little bro, let's bust this joint."

Feeling like the sunlight broke through the rainy cloud, a slight hop born into his step. That sense of freedom of walking out with his one and only sibling. That sense his father wasn't angry with him, and that the job didn't matter. He felt like an emancipated slave. In that moment, he wouldn't have traded in his life for anyone else's.

A spike flared in his chest, making him cringe. Suddenly he was shoved to the side, a tiny depression creased in his bicep. Turning a baleful glare towards his brother, grasping his arm, he groused, "Ow! Why'd you nudge me?"

Dean's head remained facing forward. He said nothing other than, "Mr. Winchester?"

"Huh?" Sam lifted an eyebrow. "Dude, why'd you call me that?"

"Sam?" Dean said, still facing the front.

"What?"

"Sam?"

Becoming rather irritated, Sam blurted, "I'm right here, hello? Earth to dumbass!"

"Sam," Dean said again, only his voice sounded different. In fact, it wasn't his voice at all. It sounded more like Mr. Shuester's upbeat vocals.

Sam opened his bleary eyes. The waxy film was still present blurring his vision. Once it cleared, he saw brown eyes behind a pair of wide-rimmed spectacles. Lifting his head up, realizing it was lying side-down on the desk, was when he noticed every pair of eyes set on him. Still in a bit of a daze, with a brewing headache, he stammered, "Wha…what?"

Mr. Shuester patted his shoulder, kneeling beside his desk. A few childish cheerleaders in the back sniggered at his short trouser pants riding up, revealing the long white jogger socks. "You fell asleep," the man ran a hand through his own dark curly locks. "Try to stay awake. This is a classroom, not a lounge."

The headache morphed into a turbulent storm. Scrunching up his face, Sam palmed his forehead, creating little circles to reduce the throbbing.

Mr. Shuester's face furrowed in concern. "Are you okay Sam?"

"Just got a headache, but it's okay," he shook his head, completely forgetting where he was and who was looking at him. Any other time, the automatic answer was only 'yeah, I'm okay.'

"You sure? You had some pretty nasty coughs a few minutes ago. They didn't sound good."

"I'm…I'm fine," Sam stuttered out, now gaping innocently at his teacher.

But that answer wasn't enough for good ole Shuester. Without consent, the man felt the teenager's forehead and cheeks, noticing the faint blush to them. It really had to mean something when Sam didn't take offense to the invasion of personal space.

"Well…you're a bit warm and you appear exhausted. Maybe we should call your parents?"

Sam groaned. He was too tired for this. Slumping in his seat, he replied unknowingly, "No. No. You won't be able to get a hold of my dad. You never can get a hold of him, cuz he's an overzealous working bastard," he paused, then blinked, "Did I just say that out that loud?"

The kids in the classroom laughed. Even Mr. Shuester chuckled a bit, scratching the back of his head. "Okay Sam, then why don't you have a lie down? That'll probably be better. Have a nap in a warm cozy bed in the nurse's office, huh?"

Sam reluctantly agreed with the nod of his head, feeling his eyes begging to close.

"Okay," Shuester gave a weak smile, picking up his books and stuffing them into his knapsack. Pointing to the blonde haired kid sitting in the front row, he called, "Hey Brian. Can you help Sam here to the nurse?"

"Sure Mr. Shue," the kid, a jock it appeared replied hopping out of his seat. The teacher handed the bag to him, and then helped pull Sam to his feet.

A little weary after the way Sam barely could step in the right direction, the teacher emphasized to the jock, "Make sure he stays up on his feet, and see if Linda can get a hold of his dad."

"No sweat, Mr. Shue," Brian smiled, reaching out taking Sam by the elbow, "Come on buddy. Nice and easy."

Sam was only a little aware of his body moving through the rows of the desks, then out into the dark hallway. In the background he heard a student emit a few feigned coughs before calling out "Can I go too, Shuester. I think I might be dying."

"Timmy, you're always dying. Shut up and pay attention."

With his eyes cast down, he saw his feet make awkward sloppy steps. His dad would be so proud of him. Feeling a tug on his elbow, he looked up and saw a boy about a half of a foot taller than he was. Sam recognized him. He knew the young man by reputation as the soccer captain, Brian Lieverman (Leann's crush). Blonde, sexy chocolate brown eyes, great build, he was a fabulous looking kid with a spunky attitude, who wouldn't have a crush on him? It surprised Sam to no end that the most popular kid in all the school was literally carrying him to the nurse.

Brian adjusted the strap of Sam's knapsack over his shoulder. Sagging a bit, he piped, "Wowsas, you can carry this around all day? It feels like it weighs a ton."

Drowsily, Sam replied, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," the jock smiled, "I'm amazed dude that you carry this around all day. I think it could be used as a good weight. How many books you got in here?"

Sam shrugged, "A lot."

"No kidding. Phew, I wish I can maintain all this…but I just ain't that smart. S'good thing we got kids like you. God knows we need more nerds…not that you're a nerd or anything," he said sheepishly.

Sam laughed a bit, waving off the comment, strolling on. It was good to hear there was at least one good person that had decent sportsmanship. Allowing Brian to guide him on through the corridors, acting as his escort through the children's prison maze, Sam just concentrated on remaining upright. Finally after long last, the two teenagers came to a door with the sign "Nurse" in big, bright, red letters suspended overtop.

"Here ya go, a nice lovely bed waiting for ya," Brian said cheerfully, "But don't worry, the great thing is the covers aren't so scratchy, they're like fine linen. And you'll like the pillow. I think the nurse had to replace it a dozen times, cuz kids just keep taking off with them. Totally radical!"

"Really?" Sam asked, even though it wouldn't have bothered him. He was used to scratchy and worn covers and lumpy pillows.

"Yeah," the kid replied with a smile that could light up a whole field. "Been in here a couple times…especially during test time. Stress is a proven milady that can put cha out for a whole day."

"Oh I so agree with that," Sam leaned in toward the door, forgetting that it was closed.

Brian opened it for him, eying him wearily. "You going to be alright?"

"I hope so," Sam mumbled, stepping in.

"The bed's back there," Brian pointed to a draped curtain at the back of the small office.

To the right was the nurse's desk, cluttered with files and medical equipment. Behind it was a small workstation and white cabinets to store equipment and such. The boys walked straight in passing the desk, heading towards the back room.

Brian set down Sam's bag beside the nurse's desk. "I'll make sure your bag stays with the nurse. It's almost 12:30. She should be back soon. After she's done having her lunch of fettuccine and mushroom sauce."

"Huh, you do come here often. Thanks," Sam nodded, drawing back the curtain revealing an evenly pressed bed stationed in the corner.

"No prob," Brian called at the door, "Hope you feel better."

Sam gave a feeble smile. "Me too. Thanks again. Oh, and uh, good luck with the game."

He didn't think it was possible, but the jock's smile grew bigger. "Thanks we're gonna need it." And he left.

It didn't take Sam long to climb into the small rectangle. One thing was for sure, that Brian kid was right in that the approximately four or five blankets he was buried under were comfortable, like silk and not scratchy. The pillow too was extraordinary. It felt like his head was floating on a cloud; the fragrance of cherry blossoms enshrouding, luring him to the brink. He fell asleep almost instantly.

* * *

"Why are we here again?" Dean asked, climbing out of the passenger seat of the Impala, craning his neck up at the tall office building where the recent murder of Gaylord Hymen occurred.

"Something just occurred to me," John responded exiting the driver's side. Also tilting his head up, he looked up at the building. Typically bleak with no real significance to it, except for its sheer size, the building now had a ghostly, almost haunting appeal about it. Though closed temporarily, it seemed cold, lifeless, kind of like a foreboding beacon to any soul, warning them to stay away.

To all except the Winchesters, of course, and hunters alike.

A spine-tingling chill swept through Dean, forcing him to shudder as he surveyed the edifice's exterior. His gut churned; his mind revolting at the thought of witnessing more grossly scenes. But it was in the job. If ever he wanted it to end, prevent seeing more death, then he had to do what was necessary.

John was the first to take a step forward. Ignoring his own bodies' repulsion for the task ahead, he continued with his son behind on into the darkened building. Ducking under the yellow tape surrounding the front entrance, he and Dean entered through the double glass doors. Hardly content with taking the stairs up to the twenty-second floor, it was decided the elevator's candidacy for travel was voted best in customer satisfaction.

The elevator ride was slow and quiet, the brass cart creeping up the shaft at a snail's pace it seemed. Neither Winchester emitted a peep: both conscientious and anxious to get to the top. Several ideas flitted through John's head. He knew he saw something the day before. Although his survey of the room was thorough and brief, deep within his heart, he knew he had missed something. Possibly something vital to the means of this creature's travel arrangement.

Dean was more curious at his father's need for another scene investigation. His father was a pro: never a time where he needed a second inspection. Anxiety thrummed through his legs, the back part of his heel bouncing spasmodically. Curiosity was always one of his weaknesses, and it didn't help the building anticipation of entering the crime scene. This would be the first time he actually went into the office. The last time he and his dad staged as private detectives, John forced Dean to stay out and question the employees, obtaining explicit accounts; while he got to do all the exciting work.

Dean let out an impatient sigh when the cart finally shuddered to a stop. The double brass doors creaked open, emitting nail-biting caterwauls attesting to their age. John and Dean slowly stepped out, taking a left down a long corridor that smelt oddly of rotten cabbage. The sidewalls were mustard yellow; or rather they looked yellow due to the dim lighting from half-a-century old chandeliers from above. Each step the grown men took, a bellowing screech sounded from the aging floorboards, alerting anyone who worked on the hallway of their presence. It was a wonder why the building was soon to be renovated?

Finally reaching their goal at the victim's office door, Dean whistled, amazed by the solid English Oak door and intricate paneling, he had overlooked before. The rest of the building was in desperate need of repair, but it was clear what came first in the remodeling. That door itself cost a fortune just to be installed, let alone what it cost originally. There didn't need to be a sign; this was certainly the boss's room.

Pulling down more of the yellow police tapes, John entered the room and stopped dead, his face contorted in utter surprise. Dean followed suit, his curiosity reaching its climax at his father's abrupt stature. "What is it, Dad?"

"Who are you?" John barked.

Stepping further into the room, slightly distracted by the burgundy leather furniture, silk drapes, and velvet carpet, Dean then saw whom had his father tensed. It was a man, kneeling by the polished desk near the back window with his fist in front of his face.

Dressed in a dark overcoat that bunched on the floor, the man turned and instantly the two Winchesters recognized him as the detective Drew Willis. It was hard not to remember the blonde, icy-blue eyed snoop going around getting in the way of the investigation. Several times, either John or Dean would be in mid-interrogation and this guy but in, and completely take over the questioning. It happened twice during the initial investigation of Hymen's office.

Oddly he sounded like an over-educated college professor, complete with a smug attitude, as though he expects himself the top dog of the pen. And he kept smiling, revealing the hint of a silver-chrome filling on his left canine: it was a tad creepy. Dean never mentioned it to Sam, but this guy was in the Top Five list for the cause of John's frustration. He was annoying and kept getting in the way.

"Willis, what are you doing here?" John asked roughly.

"I could ask you the same thing, Winchester," the man replied in a snobbish-manner.

Standing his ground, John squared his shoulders. "Dean and I came to do a follow-up. I imagine you're doing the same."

"Quite right," Willis replied. He stood up wiping off his hands on his jacket. Gazing sternly at the two, he said, "So Dad? Huh? I thought you two were partners?"

Dean tensed._ Another fuck-up._ He could tell from his father's stiff posture and stoic expression that, yeah, he screwed up. It was pertinent that no one knew John had two sons, for any reason, on any hunt. _Rule number….wait, he forgot!_

John gritted his teeth. "Well, as now it's too late. Yes. He is my son and my partner…though amateurish at best," he sent a glare back towards Dean. "But we're not here to discuss my family, are we?"

"No. Of course not," the detective replied stepping closer. "I found some new clues, though you probably will consider them ridiculous."

"Depends."

Willis nodded. "Okay. Hair samples…from under the desk, plus more maggots and flies inside the vent."

"I know, that's what I came to check up on," John answered gruffly, referring to the small 4x4 square-inch vent beneath the desk: a way the monster could have possibly traveled in. It only interested him about how Willis would think to check there.

"Hair samples not from our victim. They're different. Curly, with a bit of thickness to it," Willis enlightened.

John motioned to Dean to stand by the door, while he scoped out the scene, checking for the small hair follicles Willis mentioned. Ducking beneath the desk counter, John pulled out his tiny flashlight, shining the beam inside the darkened aperture. Sure enough, remnants of fly larvae and tiny brisk hairs adhered to the linoleum walls, patches stuck in bloody trails. Falling back on his rump, the clues concluded his suspicion. It can travel through small openings.

So either this thing mustn't be corporeal.

Or it might be, and can gallivant through ethereal means.

"Da…er, John? Anything?" Dean called from the door, eying Willis's eager expression.

"Yeah Dean. We got something. I don't know what it means yet."

"Of course not," Willis exclaimed. "How can anyone? I mean, what does this conclude? That something came from inside the vent? I doubt that this murderer can do that," he clapped his hands and began massaging them together. "So simply, we can conclude that either the vent was hardly cleaned, or some of the perp's DNA washed out with the victim's blood. Either way, this guy can move. With all the blood left, he didn't leave a single boot print. Odd, wouldn't you say?"

Once Willis finished, John hunched forward staring hard, a certain troubling look flitting over his facial. Dean tensed reading the expression. Anytime his father developed a look like that, it was when he realized something; and something not good. He was close to being right when his father immediately ordered, "Dean. Go wait in the car."

"But don't you ne—"

"Now!"

Dean barely hesitated. His feet were already in walking mode heading out the grand office before his mind had time to catch up. So it had to be something real bad, otherwise John would have wanted to talk to him in private.

Still grumbling over John's comment earlier about being an amateurish partner, insulting him basically in front of the other detective, and now being ordered like a mutt to go wait in the car, much like he would to his brother, there was a slight stomp in his step. The elevator ride was much faster. It was perhaps a full minute by the time he reached the Impala, crossing his arms, kicking at the dirt.

"Amateur, puh," he groused in a dull murmur.

_Well, it didn't help that I flat out called him Dad in front of the other guy_, Dean thought. _Was that why he forced him out? Because John thought him to be too immature to handle this one job, and was seen as a nuisance. No, it couldn't possibly be. Not after just one little mishap._

But this was his Dad he was talking about. When the man gets riled up, anything is bound to set him off like a short fuse to a powder-keg. Did he finally figure out what was causing all the grief? What? Why would he force him out? What was it that killed those people?

Apparently Willis's clue led him to think that, yes this definitely had to be some ethereal son-of-a-bitch. But if it was some apparition? Then why was it leaving behind body fragments. Hair? _Gross!_ No spirit he ever heard of could do that.

A figure walking up the street caught his eye. A spark of recognition sprang at seeing the silken raven hair blowing with the icy wind. Then instantly a thought occurred to him. He took off a hare-like sprint.

"Anya?" he called running. "Anya!"

The person stopped, her entire frame tense and rigid, not even bothering to turn around. Dean jumped in front of her with a big goofy grin, noticing her arms curled tightly against her chest. "Hey girl. Jeez, am I glad to see you."

"Hey Dean," came a tiny squeak.

He cocked his head to the side intrigued why her head was bowed, almost submissive like a dog cowering before her master. "You okay?"

Anya became more rigid, if that was even possible. Nodding her head rapidly, she glanced away from him, leading him to surmise something was wrong. The girl before him wasn't the same he met in the bar. She was paranoid, skittish, a shrunken figure compared to the flamboyant, out-going personality he admired. Her dazzling emerald eyes bulged out of worn sockets, blood-shot as though she was the new poster-girl for insomnia. What had happened to her?

"Anya, I can see something is not right. Is everything okay at home?" Dean insisted.

"Why?" she nearly shrieked, "Why would you ask that?"

Caught in the moment, and stricken temporarily dumb, Dean merely shrugged, unable to come up with a good comprehensive answer. "Uh…you…you just look troubled, is all."

"Oh," she glanced away again, "I'm…I'm okay. You?"

"Splendid," he answered facetiously.

"Was there something you needed?" she asked, peeking over her shoulder.

Shaking his head, Dean nodded. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I needed to ask you a question."

"Alright. I'm prepared," she peered over her shoulder again, then looked over the other one. It was like she was weary of something, expecting something or someone to commit a surprise attack.

"Okay well, this might sound a little strange. But this kinda shoots back to our usual discussion. What do you know…uh, or actually do you know of any creature, any at all that only attack at night?"

The girl's eyebrows met. "Dean, there are quite a few mythological creatures that inhabit the dark."

Biting his lip over the vagueness of the question, Dean tried again. "Okay, let me try again. Is there any creature that happens to eat humans…or I guess meat, likes to leave maggots behind, and that may or may not have an Afro?"

Anya donned a suspicious look. "Why do you want to know?"

"Oh, uh…" Dean bit harder down on his tongue, thinking hard for a good answer. "Just uh…it's for a report for uh, school."

Her gaze grew even more skeptical. "Dean, you're not even in school."

"No, I meant for my brother. He still is, and he's doing it on monsters. But anyway, that's beside the point. Do you know if there are? You would be a major help."

Sighing, Anya contemplated, then quietly responded after a short bit, "There isn't one. Not in classic lore."

"Come on, there has to be something," Dean urged.

She pondered some more, then shook her head. "No, not a creature or entity I am familiar with. But I can look in my books for you, if you want."

"Okay, that's a start. Will you call me if you find anything?"

"Sure," she replied quickly, glancing around once again.

The wind picked up and a dog's howl echoed behind them. Anya spun around, emitting a small cry. Tremors suddenly wracked through her tiny frame. "Uh, Dean. I have to go."

"You sure you're—" he was cut off the second time of that day.

"Yeah. I'm fine. But I need to go. See you," his poker queen spoke, before fleeing up the street and out of sight.

"Huh," Dean cocked his head sideways again. "That was weird."

Traversing back to the car, he arrived just in time for his father to exit the building. John was still tense and uptight about something. It was only until he was in the car, provided with the safety and privacy of the Impala's interior will he speak his mind.

John said nothing when he plopped down in the driver's seat. He stared straight ahead, non-blinking. Whatever it was on the man's mind, it was deep. Dean waited patiently. Eventually he would tell him.

A few minutes of tense silence fell between them. Then finally John turned to him and said slowly, "Willis is a hunter."

Dean's jaw dropped to the floor. _That ain't good._

* * *

"Sam?" A sweet voice called. "Sam sweetie, wake up…Sam?"

He heard it. But responding to it presented a whole new dilemma. His lids felt so heavy, they would need a pulley machine to open them.

"Sam?" it called again, and this time he recognized the voice belonged to the young nurse Linda. "Sam, come on," she pressed.

His hand shot out as she prodded his chest. Her touch invoked a sharp searing jolt, and he shuddered at it. Emitting a small groan, his eyes gradually lifted. The nurse's smile and bright periwinkle contacts were the first things he saw. She had a pale, pointed cute face under a bushel of curly blonde hair pulled back. He wouldn't have admitted it out loud, but she was really attractive. No wonder Brian came in there all the time. Blinking owlishly, he tried to sit up finding that he was unable to do so without difficulty.

"There you go, come on," Linda helped him into a sitting position. "Boy you are tired."

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Sam responded, "I'm good. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Um, Sam? I need to get a hold of your dad."

Sam shook his head at that. "Um, no. No you won't be able to—"

"I know. I already tried," Linda cut him off.

Sitting at the edge of the bed, Sam thought about his next option. Obviously there wasn't any other choice. "It's okay. I'll just um…I'll walk home. I always do."

But Linda didn't appear impressed. "Hmmm, nope! Can't let you do that."

"I can do it," Sam protested.

"Sure ya can…but Sam you're not looking too good right now buddy. I've been around sick kids plenty, and I can definitely see you're beginning to come down with something. You look exhausted and you're a tad warm. It'll make me feel much better if I took you home."

Bowing his head, he asked, "What time is it?"

"Uh, it's a little past four."

"WHAT!" Sam leapt from the bed. "Whoa! I gotta go. I gotta go. Holy crap!" he searched helter-skelter for his bag. He couldn't believe how much he overslept. The order was to be home directly after school, which ended at 2:30. His dad was going to kill him.

Linda stepped in front of him placing her hands cautiously on his shoulders. "Whoa. Hold on. Hold on. Take a chill. I'll give you a ride home. It won't be a problem _and_ it'll be a lot quicker, Deal?"

Panting, clutching his chest from the shock, Sam agreed heading towards the door. He could only imagine the kind of mood his father was in right now. But then, why the hell didn't he come to the school or at least try to call?

Following the anxious teen out the door, Linda collected his knapsack he had completely bypassed. Leading him out to her candy-apple red BMW bug—her "little ladybug car", as she liked to call it, Linda made sure the boy was properly secure before heading off towards the suburban part of town.

A little ways into the journey, Linda said, "I'm sorry Sam but I had to go through your bag. The number your father left was out of reach. So I thought possibly there was another number to reach him by and your essay was the first thing I pulled out. And I'm sorry, but my curiosity has always been bigger than most logic I have. "

Sam turned to her, full of apprehension and sheepishness. "Oh god," he murmured.

The young nurse smiled. "No, actually it was amazing. You have some real talent kid. Are you thinking about having a career in writing?"

"Um…I…I don't know. I don't have anything in mind."

"Well, you should. It'd be a real shame to have all that talent and not put it to good use. Your family wouldn't want you to do nothing with it, right?"

Sam half-wished she would shut up right about now. Sure she meant to say good things, but his predicament was a bit more complicated. He knew he wanted to go places; he just didn't need someone rubbing it in that he had to fight tooth and nail to do so.

However enlightening to hear someone appraising him for his work, it was bothersome not to hear it from the ones who really mattered. His father's regard for school no doubt was impractical, no need for other than to gain the ability to read and write. The man could certainly feel differently about it, but he had a funny way of showing it: applying all energy towards the hunt. That's why Sam felt he needed to take a stand.

"…so then I should let you know that there is a college fair coming up."

"Huh?" Sam perked up.

"Yeah," she carried on excitably. "It's being held in the next town all thanks to the lovely construction work we'll be having soon," she sounded irritated, "pshh, stupid bastard's going to take out the entire town, and our good-for-nothing officials won't lift a finger to stop it."

Sam stayed quiet. Apparently the news of Mr. Hymen's death wasn't public yet. None of the victims' names had.

"Well anyway, don't listen to me grumble," Linda continued, "but yes there is a college fair Monday night at seven pm. I hear representatives from schools all over the country are going to be there. Should be a treat! Even though I've always been curious why they would have one after the semester ends, but sometimes it's better not to ask. So y'know, if you're interested."

Hell yes, he was interested; even if he didn't express it. "Where in the next town?"

"Uh I think it's going to be held in the YMCA. It's got a big enough gym for it."

"I would really like to go," Sam mumbled, not at all aware he was overheard.

Linda glanced his way. "Really? Well, if you don't have any way of getting there, or if your Dad is still on business, I could take you."

"You would?"

"Sure, it'd be no problem."

"Oh, that would be amazing," Sam exclaimed. He felt better already.

Linda smiled. "Okay. It's established. I can pick you up by your house Monday at six. Would that be alright?"

"Perfect," Sam replied.

"Cool," she pulled the Ladybug onto a two-sided housed street, "Okay, so we reached Clifton Avenue. Where's your house, bud?"

Scanning the perfect suburban neighborhood, it was only appropriate he picked one that wasn't too far from his current residence. There was no way in Hell he was telling the nurse he lived in a motel. That would spark questions (especially when he knew he was coming down with something), no doubt instigating an investigation, and they would have to leave town…again. So he picked his favorite domicile, the nicer of the bunch.

"Uh, you see that one," he pointed, "that white two-story there on the right."

"Right there?" she pointed, following his direction.

"Yep," Sam lied.

"Ooh nice. No wonder your dad's always away on business."

"Just park there on the curb."

The nurse did as was told. "Alright Sam, get in there and get to bed. Make sure you drink plenty of fluids. And tell your dad to get a better plan."

"Yeah."

"I hope you feel better."

"Thanks again. I appreciate it. And thanks for telling me about the college fair. I really am interested to go," Sam replied.

"No problem sweetie. See you Monday. Cheerio!" Linda called out, imitating a British accent.

Sam waved exiting the car and closing the door, making his way towards the back. He glanced behind and saw the vehicle hadn't moved. As a last resort, he went to the back fence gate, opened the latch and hid behind the tall fence line, waiting on the sound of the engine to roll away. Once the noise of tires rolling among the asphalt and the hum of the little BMW faded away, he came back out, locking the gate.

Having felt rejuvenated after the little powernap, he continued on behind the grove of backyards. Following along a ditchline, he crossed a small little bridge connecting to the woods behind. Minutes later, the motel was in sight, and so was the Impala. Standing for a minute longer, Sam prepared himself for what was probably going to be the lecture of his life. He had never been this late before. It was probably better to keep the college fair under wraps for now. His dad was hardly ever compliant to his wishes before, and it was going to take a miracle now.

Sucking in a large breath, he carried on until he reached the door, cringing at the sound of a knife being sharpened. The key wasn't inserted all the way in when the door swung open. In the doorway stood a giant robust troll or rather a very pissed-off looking ogre ready to snap him in half. Its eyes were narrowed down to slits, glinting like piercing daggers as if Sam the boy had tried to steal from the ogre's room full of treasure.

"Where the hell have you been?" John half-shouted.

Sam cringed again. The shout pulsed unmercifully on his eardrums. "I'm sorry…"

"Sorry's not good enough. Get in here," his father demanded, slamming the door behind him. "You were supposed to be here straight after school. That would've given you a good twenty minutes to walk. Not a whole two hours."

With his shoulders hunched over, Sam strode forward bypassing Dean working on sharpening his bowie knife, and plopping on the bed.

His dad rounded on him. "What's the excuse this time, huh? Didn't feel like participating today. Didn't want to get caught up in some more unworthy pastime? What?"

Sam's shoulders sagged. He didn't know what to say. Nothing would have helped at this point. "I'm sorry. I just…"

"Just what? More homework?" John butted in.

Sam sighed. Telling his father the truth that he was sleeping it off in the nurse's office right now probably wasn't the best thing to do, not while John was already riled up. The man would more than likely take it as a lame excuse and work him harder. "Yeah. The teacher needed some extra assistance and I opted to help him. I didn't know it was going to take this long."

"How convenient?" John spat, "You opt to help someone else when I told you to be home directly after school, when we have something far more important than some teacher's need for paper filing…"

"It wasn't like that Dad."

"No?"

"No, it wasn't. And besides you're always telling us to help people. I mean, isn't that what you're doing right now?"

John's scowl intensified. "Don't you use that as an excuse. You defied a direct order…again. Sometimes I don't know what to do with you."

Defeated, and somewhat hurt, Sam asked pleadingly, "Dad, can we please just stop this? I'm sorry for being late. I didn't mean to be, I swear. I'm just really tired and I want a nap." He wasn't lying then. In fact, it surprised him that he was being so honest. But the point was he was too tired to argue. Just ignoring his father's rant and falling backwards on the bedspread came as a comforting thought, too good to pass up.

But his honesty wasn't good enough for dear old Pops. John stepped forward with his arms curled against his chest. "You should've thought about that before you stayed up all the other night finishing your homework."

Sam huffed, eying his dad peculiarly. "You know I don't get you. Last I checked, parents aren't supposed to punish their kids for doing their homework."

"And last I checked," John countered strikingly, "those kids are not supposed to backtalk to their parents. They're supposed to be respectful and willing, and always answer with yes sir or no sir with none in between. Now knock off this crap and get to work. I don't care how tired you are, I need an update within the hour."

"But Dad—"

"No buts! And since you feel the need to not participate and stay in for most part of this hunt, you can stay here, in this motel room, until I say otherwise. When your brother and I are out, that means no going places. No friend's house. No casual walks down the street. I don't even want you to go out to the freakin' coke machine," his father sentenced. "And…I want an hourly update."

Sam sat stunned, mortified with such a punishment. It was bad enough having to stay in this dreadful claustrophobic place at night, much less all day. "That's not fair!"

"Oh that's not fair huh? What's not fair is you skipping out on us when Dean and I need your help. This is one badass case that we need solid teamwork on. But since you're so pre-occupied with school, then I guess the two of us has to pick up the slack, just so you can do your homework. So you stay here, that's that. Am I in any way unclear?"

Puffing in resentment, Sam shook his head.

"I didn't hear that," John pressed.

Sam gritted his teeth. "No sir," he grounded out.

"Good," John uncrossed his arms, heading towards the door. "Let's go Dean."

Dean put down his weapons and grabbed his coat off the bed. Sam sent an unwarranted glare at his brother. Dean did nothing but sit there, agreeing, like the perfect robot soldier. It concerned him a bit about why Dean hadn't shown some sort of concern himself. If Dean had been caught up for two hours at school or elsewhere, Sam would've been the first to get out there and search for him, find out about the holdup. But no, he waited, alongside his dad. As if they both were in the mood to reprimand.

Noticing the glare, Dean returned one of his own. "What?"

"Nothing," Sam shrugged, "You just sat there. Didn't even bother to help out."

"Really Sam?" He sounded enraged. "What did you want me to say? Y'know I stood up for you. Actually talked Dad into letting you go to school today, because I knew it was important to you."

"Just let me explain," Sam pleaded quietly.

"I thought you already did."

Glancing away, Sam bit his lip.

"That's what I thought," Dean spat. "Never again Sam. Never again will I stand up for you, cuz now I'm in a heap of trouble. Thanks. I hope today was worth it, cuz don't expect to be going tomorrow. I'm with Dad on this one. We need all the help we can get. Especially now, cuz we have a hunter in town."

"What?"

"Yeah. He's been snooping around for quite some time. Pretty much since this investigation began. And Dad's starting to think this guy has been here awhile before."

"Well, who is he?"

Dean shook his head. "You wouldn't know him. But it doesn't matter. It just means we have to pick up the pace, because you know how Dad gets."

_Very competitive_, Sam thought. _And very uptight._

"So if I were you, I'd suck these crazy fantasies about school up. There isn't any time for it now. Now get to work."

Without another word, Dean left, slamming the door. Once it was quiet, the rumble of the Impala's engine revving and fading away, disgruntled, Sam fell back on the bed like he had envisioned. He blew out a long miserable breath. Sometimes he really hated being part of this family. This day could support that perspective for years to come.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: **

**Friends till the End**

The Impala's wipers worked rhythmically against the splatters of rain. Moving at a steady pace, the car maneuvered around many existing potholes and bumps. The dirt road was narrow with large suspending branches brushing against the sides. John worked fast in steering the wheel, determined to get to their next destination.

Another call had come through to the police station the day before. Considered to be inconsequential, the report was put away in a drawer. Until later in the day during a visit to the _respectable_ PD station, John found it and thought it to be _considerable_. All the way on the edge of town, almost in Smokey Bear territory, are several houses. A woman living right smack dab in the middle of nowhere placed a call claiming a lot of strange animal noises occurring. The authorities believed it to be part of the woman's paranoid schizophrenia, but John wasn't taking any chances.

Already John was in a bad mood. By far, he was surprised he managed to find the report. Willis lately, while snooping around, had been squandering most of the calls, nearly taking over the investigation single-handedly. John was becoming more frustrated by the minute. He wasn't sure how the scumbag was doing it, but the police force seemed to be eating out his hand. Perhaps it was the cool and confident acts, or the reassurances that everything was under control that had the fellow units believing his every word. If John wasn't careful, sooner or later, the dear hunter probably would see fit to make sure John and Dean wouldn't have any access to, well, everything. He wouldn't be surprised if it happened within the next few days. The constant running into one another was becoming a slight hindrance.

Dean sat quietly next to him fiddling with their collective reports. Coming up with no prognosis to the pages his brother procured over the night, he stared absent-mindedly, flicking the top corner of the folder back and forth intermittingly.

After several minutes of the internal debate whether or not to ask, he finally said, "Run it by me again. Why do you think Willis is a hunter?"

John sent him an impatient glare. "I told you. It was the way he came across about the case."

"Like how?"

"Like for instance, why was he there in the first place without another unit there to back him up?"

Dean sat up straighter in the seat. "But dad, any detective could've done that."

"Not on this case son," John answer bluntly, shaking his head, "Every unit is taking precaution. Plus why would he think to look inside the vent system as I had?"

"True," Dean shrugged.

"And besides, with the way he tried to cover it up. It's the same reaction we would have done if someone else had walked in. Every hunter I know does it."

"Okay. Well then, did you ask him about it? Or are you just going by some sixth sense?"

He received another impatient glare.

"I did ask him, actually. Well, angled around it. And the look I got, yeah. There's no mistaking it. He quickly got out of there after I asked," John sighed, turning the car onto a heavily wooded street.

"Oh. Yep, I have to agree with you on that one. It's the same thing we would have done. So now that leaves the question…where are we going?" Dean asked glancing out the rain-dotted window.

"To another witness's house on the outskirts of town. Said she heard some noises in her backyard, and that she may or may not have seen light's on in a little house in the woods. Also said the house was supposed to be condemned and had not been inhabited since the nineteen-twenties. Figured we might check it out. And later on, we'll head back into town if we find anything there."

"Town again? What? Aren't we going to confront Willis?" Dean exclaimed. He was so not in the mood to go on a hiking adventure through the woods.

"Confront him?" John raised an eyebrow. "Confront him about what?"

"Uh…well…I don't know. Maybe ask why is he around? Tell him to get lost or something, that we got it covered," he yammered.

John let out another sigh. "Dean, what have I told you about hunters?"

Dean rolled his eyes, the answer rolling off his tongue as it had been drilled in his head since he was a tween. "That we can't trust em'"

"And?"

"And that we leave them be. Give them no reason for grudges."

"Good. Now that we have that covered. Willis already knows that you're my son. We don't need to give him any other leverage. Why do you think I told you to leave? He already knows about us. So the best thing to do is to keep to ourselves. He's already enough of a trifling pain-in-the-ass, like your brother."

Dean also let out a great exasperated sigh. "Yes sir."

Not another word was exchanged. The Impala revved faster through the oncoming rain with a purpose.

* * *

The area appeared secure.

His main destination was in sight.

Across the street, not twenty yards from where he was standing.

Positioned behind a corner of the florist's shop, Sam overlooked the street with a hawk's eye. He listened for the Impala's rumble, or the loud barking his Dad often made, or the Player subtexts his brother often used to a chick for obtaining information. His instincts struck a chord. They were close. He hadn't a clue where they were. And he wasn't taking his chances. He searched high and low all over the main road cutting through the townhouses and shops for either a tall person with a grizzled appearance or a tall suave character with spiky golden hair.

Once it was established that his family were nowhere in sight, Sam crept out from the shadows. He hacked some more into his hand, leaving behind a wad of mucus, wiping off the slime on the back portion of his jeans. Whilst crossing the street, Sam kept his eyes and ears alert.

If his Dad caught wind that he secretly left the motel, no doubt the man would skin him and hang him up by his toes to dry, like something you'd find in _Predator, ewww_. He was already in hot water with the man, and this little excursion would definitely lead the water to boiling.

But enough was enough. He was practically coughing his lungs out. With no decent chest decongestant or anything remotely useful besides water, remaining in the motel was miserable. The little sleep he was able to obtain did nothing. Soon the horrendous coughing began and hadn't relented. After awhile, he thought he'd be able to get the coughing frenzy under control, but not until he felt his head and realized it was a tad too warm and there present was perspiration.

_Great!_ Now he was coming down with a fever. Wouldn't that be just exactly what would get his father's pot kettling? Then, he was still rather reluctant to go; the college fair opportunity jumping up and down in the back of his mind. Figuring catching up on some homework, in that meddling with things would keep his thoughts astray from his growing sickness and his Dad.

It wasn't until after he began to feel extremely lethargic, that he said 'Screw it'. Knowing his father, there was a lot for him to do once the man returned. Typically lots of research. And saying he was too tired to work was not going to get him off the hook. No siree. Medicine it had to be. It was just a trip to the pharmacy. One quick little stop and then he'd be back. With Dean gone doing whatever Dean was apt to do on a Friday afternoon, he'd have only a small window. A little smile formed. If there was a chance for his teenage rebellious side to take charge, no doubt the little whippersnapper inside would take it. And right now, the little dude was doing its happy dance!

But…he had to do so without getting caught. That would be the most coveted outcome, he thought. Still intent on his espionage mission (though it was more like sneaking around), he walked with haste. Dodging a few mothers and their baby-carriers, catching their whispers about the latest murder, he ran into the small store. It took only thirty seconds to find the correct aisle, and another thirty to find what he needed. Jogging probably would have been unnecessary, but he was on a limited time-restraint. Dishing out another roundhouse coughing fit, the small boxes of cough suppressant and fever-reducer fell from his grip onto the counter.

The clerk eyed him inquisitively. "Got a bad cold there, wouldn't you say?" the man asked.

Wiping his mouth with his hand, Sam glanced up at the questioner, seeing it was a tall lanky man in a red vest with a golden nameplate displaying the name 'Clark' on it. He looked a little older, probably a college student. It was the middle of May after all; traditionally the end of college semesters. Sam gave a short smile, nodding his head, aware that he produced tears.

"Everything okay?" Clark asked.

"Ye-yeah," his throat tickled again, "I'm…I'm g-good. But i-it just came time for some help." He pointed at the boxes. The clerk agreed with a crease on his lips, taking up the contents and scanning them. "Thanks for asking," Sam said.

"You're welcome." Clark gave a big toothy smile, and Sam silently wished that he hadn't. Needless to say the boy needed some serious braces. It was like his teeth were trying to fight for one spot. Several were crowding into the front, and others overlapping each other. If there had been a circus around, the guy would definitely have a spot in the show. But at least they were pearly white- so Sam shoved his indecent thoughts back into his head, locking them up tight and throwing away the key. He gave a big toothy grin of his own, waiting on Clark to tally up the charge.

"Hey Sam," a rosy voice called out.

Surprise hit him like a battering ram slamming into a door. Of course, he'd been spotted. Slowly turning around, his shoulders slumped with relief at the caller. It was Leann, yelling from down an aisle. If it had been an adult, especially a teacher, or worse one of his Dad's contacts, he'd hightail it out of there. Luckily it was a friend he knew from school.

Sadly, he thought, his only friend.

Leann traipsed towards him. She had a slight hop in her step. Today her hair was down, the frizz wildly raving around her plump face. She had on a cute lace spaghetti-strap and a pair of jeans.

The closer she hopped in his direction, the more pungent the smell of stale perfume became. Sam didn't want to admit it, but it wouldn't have surprised him if she rolled around in cat piss and then ran a mile afterwards. The smell was an eye-opener. The closer she got, he could see she was wearing make-up. There was no mistaking it; she was trying her best to impress someone. The glow in her cheeks had said as much.

"He-hey Le-Leann," Sam replied, his voice scratchy and broken due to yet another coughing rage. He turned away, covering his mouth with his hand. The burn in his throat flared, and a headache blossomed.

The girl jumped the last two feet in front of him, her hair remaining stiff and in its place. The smell of the perfume blasted ten-fold. Sam wondered if he would be able to put a hold on his gag-reflex, as the smell hit him like a brick. Even Clark backed up a step.

"Whoa there ole buddy ole pal. Ewe sick or somethin'?" she asked.

Sam made a tiny urp, praying to God she didn't notice. Whatever she was wearing, it was really working hard on his system. He swallowed the saliva that accumulated. "N-no. Just a bad cough," he hit his chest with a closed fist. "I'm just g-getting something to make it go away."

"Oh okay. Missed ewe at school today. Ewe didn't miss much. We got out early," Leann replied ecstatically, as if she wasn't worried. Her brown eyes bulged and her body jittered. It was apparent she was brimming with excitement over something and any minute was about to explode. Sam turned away handing the needed dollar amount to Clark.

"So Sam, ewe know about the soccer game tonight, right?" she asked excitably.

Sam took a moment to consider. Then gradually it dawned on him that she was right. There was a soccer game tonight. No, it was the Greenton High School Soccer Championship against Brutton High! It wasn't like he had totally forgotten. How could he? Only the entire high school and town raved about it for the past two weeks.

"Yeah, I do."

"Cool, so…" she nestled up closer to him, "Are you going?"

That was an immediate shake of the head. He knew his Dad's answer. Asking to go to the college fair was one thing, but asking him straight out if he could go to a school- sponsored event, was an entire new ball game (excuse the pun).

"Awww. Why not?" Leann whined, adding to the cowardly lion appeal. But Sam didn't say that out loud.

_Maybe cuz my Dad can be one scary sonuvabitch when pissed off and I don't feel like dealing with it. Or maybe because I don't feel so well and I'm not sure how much I can stand that God-awful perfume you're wearing._ But he didn't speak this out loud either.

"Cuz I'm not really into it, that's all." Even if he did absolutely loved soccer and definitely had wanted to go.

Clark packed his medicine inside a plastic bag and handed it to him. Sam gave him a nodded 'thank you' before heading towards the door. He needed to get back asap.

But Leann had pounced in front of him, like a cat. Her eyes shined with a brightness that dazzled him. He wished she hadn't looked at him like that. They almost had a begging glint about them. "Come on Sam, can you please go? It's just a soccer game. You can go with me."

He silently groaned. Sure, he wanted to go and it was sweet of her to ask him. (Come on, him?) But there was that little daddy issue. "Leann, I—"

"No please Sam, please," she half-shrieked. Now she was begging. "Please! I have no one else to go with. No one else would come with me."

A secret desire filled within him to say _with how you smell right now, no wonder_. But his trap stayed shut. He really wanted to tell her that he was feeling under the weather, but wasn't that considered a phrase for blowing people off? Even if she did reek of old cat lady, this was his only friend that he got along with, who had the nerve to talk to the new kid. Given his sweet nature and his lack of experience with dates and girls, how could he say no? Her eyes began to glisten, and that was his undoing.

He sighed. "Sure Leann, I'll go with you. But I'm gonna have to meet—" he coughed, "you there. I'm not exactly on my Dad's good side right now, so I might have to, you know, sneak out." He shot her a sheepish grin.

It was bad enough having to tell her that his father was nine-kilos of dynamite angry with him, but telling her to meet him at the motel, thus revealing his current residence…that was a Hell to the No! Meeting at the game was probably proper. And she didn't seem to mind.

Leann leapt up and down excitably. "Thank ewe! Thank ewe! Oh _thank ewe_ Sam. Ewe won't regret this, I promise." She leaned forward and pecked his cheek. It left him stunned; almost entirely happy that he said had said yes.

She stumbled back. "Cool yah! Okay, I'll meet ewe at the ticket booth at seven, pronto. Righty-on compadre. Thank ewe buddy, ew're the best!" And she raced out of the store, leaping for joy like a large cat-like frog.

It was maybe a second, maybe a minute later when Sam finally broke free of his stunned paralysis. And that put him into yet another coughing fit. His chest flared and his throat burned. He was glad he took the risk of getting the supplies. But now, he had an even bigger matter on his hands. Now he had to figure out a way of sneaking out without his brother noticing, or worse, his Dad. Still stagnant, he paused to think.

Then he blinked. _Wait a minute!_ Did he just agree to a date? _Holy chinchillas! _Even if it was a friend he knew, it was still considered a date, he supposed. Or was it? It could possibly be just a duo friendship—or it could be a date? He made a grimace. He hadn't a clue. Trigonometry problems were much easier to understand. The way she said _no one else would come with me_, it made him think he might actually be a pity date or something.

But nevertheless, it was still a date. And as long as he kept the circumstances under wraps, Dean would be thrilled.

"You know, the real thing is a whole lot worse," he heard someone say, snapping him out of his current trance; forcing him to realize he had been standing there for a long minute after she left.

Turning around rather jerkily, he found that someone to be Clark, wiping down the already polished counter. "Huh? What?"

Clark blushed. "You know," he patted his cheek with his index finger, "Where she kissed ya. Experiencing the real thing on the smacker leaves ya stunned a whole lot more than that."

Sam stared like a deer in headlights. He forgot Clark was standing there. And the bastard had seen the whole thing. _Of course! _"Oh. Okay. It was just a friendly pat, nothing more. We're just friends."

"Oh okay," Clark snickered, "You say that now. But a word of advice, especially regarding Leann…"

"You know Leann?"

Clark scoffed. "Who doesn't? But she's not a bad kid. A great kid in fact. It's her _daddy_, ya gotta watch out for. He's a mean codger from what I hear. Some people say he's got it in for this town. Don't want anything to do with it or anyone associated. In fact, he's so gung-ho for isolation that he doesn't want his daughter coming here. Took her out of school the first chance he got. And now that I think about it, the only way Leann was able to come back to school was social services had to put out an order."

"Really?" Sam asked. He was actually intrigued by this information about the girl. He wasn't entirely sure if he should take it with a grain of salt. But the reality of it was he knew hardly anything about his best friend.

"Yeah," Clark exclaimed, "One day she was in third grade, and the next she was gone. Was gone for a good three weeks. It was all over the papers. I remember it like it was yesterday. I think what happened was the teacher or principle noticed and looked into it. Turns out she was still home, taking care of her Pops and doing whatever he told her to do on the farm. A lot of people fear for her mainly because her mom left, had to get away from him from what I hear. Probably because the man is as chauvinistic (Yep, a college student!) as they get."

Sam's curiosity hitched up a notch. "Is he still like that? Is she still living with him?"

"Yeah, from what I've heard. They couldn't prove that he was mistreating her or any of that bahogie. So she still lives there. But luckily she took after her mom and still as sweet as can be. So y'know," Clark shrugged, "Be careful. And, too, be good to her. She really is a good kid. Comes in here all the time. And as far as I know, she hasn't made many friends. That makes you her only one."

That little spiel deserved a little huff. Sam had no intentions of being cruel. It wasn't his nature. But he took the advice, glad that he had fair warning. Besides he had a date tonight. "Don't worry, I won't. She's my only friend too," he assured, "And uh, thanks for the advice."

"No prob! Good luck," the cashier waved.

"Thanks," Sam called back, and left immediately. He had plans to make. Plans that hopefully, if done right, will have him not only go to the game tonight and have a great time, but also without his Dad knowing.

* * *

Tiny shadows skirted beneath Dean's feet causing him to jump back a few yards. Panting harshly, he aimed his gun at the ground. Rats! He just knew it had to be rats. What else were small, gray, and squeaked as they moved? The little devils raced faster, squeaking amongst themselves. He was about to shoot their slimy icky tails off…until his father reassured him that it was a flock of squirrels. His suspicion was confirmed a second later when the bushy-tailed fuckers ran up the tree.

Dean shook his head with annoyance. In the dark it was hard to see through the brush. With his eyesight a failure, his other senses were acute, extra sensitive, keeping him trigger-happy.

That was one of the main reasons why he disliked the woods. In this part of Maine, sunset came too early. Still only a hundred yards from the witness Mrs. Woodstein's back porch, the saturnine timberland was an eerie place. Cold, and filled with sticky pines and various critters galore with beady eyes, he felt like he was in the middle of a freak show. Somehow, he didn't know how, or maybe it was just a paranoid feeling, but he knew that every pair of creepy eyes was on him. Good God, he hated wildlife. Camping was a definite no-no in his book.

"Keep going Dean," John ordered passing by. He moved at a cautious pace, ready for any big bag to show it's face, the shotgun carried at the ready.

Making a sarcastic sneer at the command, Dean trudged on behind the large silhouette of the ex-Marine rolling his eyes and mouthing a silent retort. Like his father, Dean scouted all around, surveying the wet dense area for any out-of-place or death-defining hint. Which in Dean's mind was pointless, because the whole damn forest was one big deathtrap. His finger twitched against the small piece of metal occasionally once the hairs on the back of his neck were at a standstill.

From the way John eyed everything, shaking or nodding his head at every little nook and cranny, it was obvious he was in search of something. For what exactly, Dean hadn't a clue. His father was a little shy in elaborating the details in this particular plan.

"Dad? Can you please explain to me what exactly we're looking for?" he asked after a rough ten minutes of nothingness.

John shrugged. "Just anything out of place."

That answer called for another huff of annoyance and the short roll of the eyes. Searching for nothing in particular, in the barren woods with rodents, and in the dark no less. Well, only someone a few fries short of a happy meal might say the search was well underway.

"Ah!" John called after so long.

Dean moved fast to get a glimpse at the source of his father's interest. It was a wide Oak tree. Using a small penlight, John wove the beam of light along the tree's width. There carved at eye-level in the bark was a symbol: a sigil with several curvy lines. John reached up and touched it, using his fingers to trace over the figure. Taking out his flashlight from his inner pocket, Dean saw the rest of it and saw the sign took the form of a dragon. For a tree carving, it was one of a kind. With intricate curves and spirals, the workmanships detail appeared as though it was branded onto the tree.

"What does it mean Dad?"

John stared hard at it. "It's some Druidian or maybe a Celtic design of something. Um, if I remember correctly, I think the dragon must mean some sort of guardianship or rather a ward."

"Like a ward against evil?"

"Maybe. I think so," he carried the beam of light downward. "Ah, see more sigils. Here look these are rune symbols, definitely Celtic." He ran his hands over some more symbols carved beneath the dragon brand. Each a straight vertical line with two to three horizontal lines jutting out from the middle.

Dean looked dumbfounded. "Uh, and these?"

"These definitely mean protection," John crouched down still observing the runes. "I remember doing a case with Bobby down in Massachusetts where we came upon a coven of witches. Those were some of the symbols they used around their house. Usually they meant protection or insight, sometimes can mean blessings. Either way they are typically powerful, especially against evil spirits."

"So we're dealing with witches possibly?"

John shook his head. "I don't know. Nothing we've come across had the usual signs of witchcraft. You and I searched high and low. Did you find any hex bags?"

"I didn't think to look for them."

"Well, either way. We would have found something," he stood back up. "Besides, these symbols aren't used for anything else other than protection."

"So they're meant to scare people off?"

John pursed his lips. "Or meant to keep something in?"

Dean winced. "Yeah, the other choice sounds better."

"No kiddi—" John fell silent, quickly cocking the shotgun.

Tensing up like his Dad, Dean quickly lined up behind him, hearing the same rustling he heard. He immediately mimicked John with the hardened gaze, the slow breathing, and every sense on high alert as trained. There was a definite noise from up ahead. No voice belonged to it, and no other identifier signifying it was human.

John snatched up Dean's flashlight, shining it towards the sound of twigs snapping and the occasional crunchy footsteps. Both shuddered with trepidation and anxiety at seeing a flash of yellow.

The footsteps suddenly stopped, and then something happened.

All Dean was aware of was first a wrecking ball hard slam to the chest. The next his body was sailing through the air. He let out a great 'oomph' when he crash-landed ass first on the ground. John called his name, but was then silenced as the same force clipped by his shoulders, sending him spiraling to the ground.

Dean wasn't given a chance to respond as he felt his body being dragged away. He was moving at such an inconceivable pace, there wasn't anyway he could see what was pulling him away, only that a meaty hand clung onto the nape of his shirt. Maneuvering rapidly in between the ensemble of trees and bushes, he called out mightily for his Dad.

As he slid further into the woods, a last desperate thought occurred to him. With the gun still within his grasp, he pointed it up over his head. Letting off a round of shots, he was finally released, skidding amongst the wet detritus. Rolling over, he took aim. But nothing was there.

He remained motionless. His eyes searched helter-skelter all within the darkness, producing nothing. He slowed his breathing down a notch, listening intently, hearing his father's call echo not far behind. But he refused to respond. Whatever that grappled him was still out there.

After a few more seconds of nothing, Dean's instincts kicked into high gear. Pushing himself off the ground, he took off heading back towards his father's voice.

The rustling occurred again from behind.

Not daring to stop, his stride lengthened, darting in and around the bulky shadows, occasionally smacking into trees and branches not within optical perception. As the rustling increased, a growl sounded. Waving the gun around his back, he shot off blindly.

Jumping a few more yards, his boot suddenly got caught in an ascending root, sprawling him to the ground. Before he had the chance to rise, a large leather-clad sole came down on the small of his back. There was the unmistakable sound of a cocked gun, and the smell of gunpowder. It was then he realized the butt end of a double-barreled gun was pointed at his head.

"What the hell ewe doing on my property, boy?" came a scratchy voice.

"Ah crap," Dean groaned as he fanned out his arms in surrender.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8:**

**Game Time**

"Get up. On ewer knees," came the sharp reply.

Dean immediately acquiesced, not eager to be sent to an early grave. "Sure. Sure man. Take it easy."

"What're ew doing here?" the man nudged the barrel between his shoulders.

A tad nervous about his current position, all that Dean managed to produce was "Uh."

"DEAN!"

John's fearsome call reverberated loudly through the woods. Dean breathed a sigh of relief at the dancing beam of light racing towards them. He peeked up at the shadowed man, noting the large potbelly and stained wife-beater shirt, nodding in John's direction. "Just a sec. He'll explain everything."

The shotgun never moved from his back. Soon the beam of light slowed and John's robust body ran into view. He was quick into action at seeing his son framed up in capitulation, aiming his gun at the perpetrator.

"Put your weapon down," John ordered.

"This is my property. I don' haveta," the man countered angrily. The way his voice came off, the guy had one too many cigarettes in his life. "This dumbass here was runnin' and shootin'. He's just damn lucky I didn't blow his damn head off to the sky." He then pointed his weapon at John.

Thinking quickly, hoping to come up with a practical solution, John slowly lowered the gun and pulled out his fake detective badge. He knew it was near impossible to see the ID in the dark, but there wasn't any other insurance. "There's no need for this to get ugly. Currently this place is under investigation."

The man refused to step away from Dean, keeping his gun trained on John. If anything, Dean swore his finger tapped the trigger. "Investigatin?"

"Yes. We're both detectives, see," John continued. "Dean, pull your badge out."

"What about this here investigatin? For what?" the man asked brusquely.

"We're on the lookout for the killer that's been terrorizing this town. A witness's testimony led us to this part of the woods."

"By witness, ew means Mrs. Woodstein? About a half-mile down s'road?"

"I'm not at liberty to say whom."

"Figures that means yes," cigarette man scoffed. "Ew shouldn't listen to dat der dingbat. She can't tell which side is up even if it's labeled on a box."

Dean made a face, bowing his head. He certainly agreed with the man. The woman they met earlier was odd and a fair bit simple-minded.

John took a deep breath. "So this is your property? Your woods?"

"Dang gonnit man! I just told ew. Ew deaf or somethin'?" the man snapped, "This here is my lot, and I don't want no stinking cops on it."

"Alright, then we'll come back with a warrant to search," John replied sharply, turning to leave. "Come on Dean."

The fat man dropped his shotgun to his side. "Whoa. Now hold up. No need to be getting them authorities out here."

"Oh really? Is that because you have something to hide?" John asked rudely.

Though dark, it was impossible to miss the daggers glinting in the man's large round eyes. "Now ew listen here mister," he said darkly. "I ain't got nothing to hide. Nothing. I had to deal with ew meddlers for too long. No more. Ew want to look here. Ew come back in the morning."

"Gladly."

"Fine. And keep ewer guns away. Don't need any of that racket. My farm's a little ways up there."

"Good," John smiled. This here was another window in the case. It was almost worth it to let the man see that he was smiling. "See you bright and early."

The guy sneered.

Dean hopped off the damp ground, swiping away the leaves and mud clumped on his knees. Running up to catch up to his father, he said, "So I take it that must be Mr. Calvin, 'dat der dingbat' was telling us about."

"You would assume correct," John answered, now picking up a jog.

"Ugh, no wonder the old broad down the road called him a pot-bellied cheesedick."

John laughed. "Yeah. Alright keep your gun out. Calvin saved us there, but we don't know if that thing is coming back."

"Is that why we're jogging still?"

"Uh huh. I'm not taking any chances. We need to get back to the car now!"

* * *

Long and violent shivers wracked through his sore body. The hot water felt nice, abating the persistent shivers. Curling his knees up to his chest, Sam sat in the base of the tub, allowing the hot spray to sluice over him, waiting for the pain to subside. He had broken plenty of bones in his lifetime, having developed a tolerance to pain. But that didn't mean it hurt any less. The way his backside throbbed and pulsed, it wouldn't surprise him if he had broken his assbone.

After having talked to his brother a short hour ago, learning they would not be back at least for another few hours, it gave him a very short window. According to Dean, his Dad planned to scope out the woods. And knowing how his brother felt about hiking, especially at dark, they were going to be awhile. Formulating a plan, he calculated if he dressed quickly, get to the game at seven, and be back by nine-thirty, everything would be in the clear. Cell reception up in the northern part of town was practically non-existent. They wouldn't be able to call giving him the time he needed.

Rapidly after the call, Sam went into hyperactive mode, running to the shower. He would've been fine if it wasn't for another monstrous coughing fit. Unable to gain control, he accidentally slipped whilst leaning up against the wall, breaking off the cold shower nasal. The fall was short and sweet, but the coughing persisted.

Eventually it wore off leaving him stiff and achy, fearing that another attack like the one two nights before would resurface. Part of him wondered if sneaking off to the soccer match was such a splendid idea. He really wanted to go. It would be a nice break from the nasty week of staying in a stifling motel room and few hours of sleep. But fighting the cold, paranoid about his coughing, plus stressed about his family catching him in the act, he wasn't sure if it would be worth it. Staying in the motel bed snug and warm sounded better than shivering on some bleachers. Leann would be disappointed for sure.

Then it hit him. Achy and sick or not, he couldn't do that to his friend. She was really excited to hear that he'd come. It would hurt her if he hadn't, or even made an attempt to go. She was a great person, too sweet to be let down. As a friend, as her only friend, how could he do that to her? Leave her to hang alone. That wasn't a decent compadre in his book.

He still wasn't sure if this was a bonafide date. If it was truly, then wasn't there something else involved. Should…should he get her something? Like maybe flowers? Or a present? Or something?

Ah crap! Maybe he was reading too much into it? Besides its not like he had money to get Leann something nice. He made sure he only had enough for a ticket into the game. But if he doesn't get off his ass soon, he wouldn't have to worry about buying admissions.

Pulling himself up with great effort, he finished his shower. Still a little uneasy about his intended adventure, he managed to get dressed, pulling on at least two sweaters and his jacket. Nights, even in the spring, were frigid.

Only being a twenty-minute walk, it felt like he was walking for hours. His limbs were tired and sore, weighed down by the mounds of clothing he pulled on. A weird tingling feeling encumbered his stomach. He recognized this feeling before. It was his instincts telling him something was amiss.

The closer he ranged to the school, echoing booms sounded, resembling a native tribe's beating war-drums to the oncoming enemy. Screams, calls, and joyous cries filtered everywhere, along with a commentator's sonorous vocals. All up ahead, bright beams of light shown magnificently in the air, like a mini Vegas set in the middle of the high school. A deep dread flooded in Sam's chest. He hoped it hadn't. But something told him it had. Did the game already start?

He looked at his watch to confirm and saw that it was five til seven. He knew it was the championship, but no way could the crowd be this rowdy before kick-off.

Confused, Sam picked up his step, not bothering to slow until he came to the ticket-booth. A porky man inside had his back turned, watching out from a little window inside the small unit. Sam had to knock three times to catch his attention. The man spun around, scowling, then scooted up to the window.

"What?"

"Uh. Can I have a ticket?"

The man let out a huff, revealing his only two teeth. "A little late kid."

"What? Why?" Sam exclaimed.

"The game's mid-way through the second half."

"Huh? I thought it started at seven."

"Nope," toothless shook his head. "With the new curfew, they had to start it at five. It's nearly over. Didn't you hear the announcement?"

Disappointment welled up within Sam. Of course, he didn't hear the announcement. He wasn't allowed to go to school that day and had been stuck inside a ratty motel with no communication other than a measly desk phone. He bit his lip to keep from having a fit.

"No I didn't. Do I still need to pay to get in?"

"Nah. Just go on in, nobody will mind," the guy said turning back around in his seat.

"Thanks," Sam mumbled, shaking his head unto himself, walking through the gate. How could he have expected it to be any differently? He missed the game, and no doubt had lost his only friend. Hopefully if could find Leann, she'd understand.

**BOOM. BOOM.**

The drums sounded again. They battered his ears relentlessly, the screams from the crowd producing a shrill ringing. He winced occasionally striding forward. The soccer field was to the left, the clock showing the score with Greenton in the lead by thirty-some points over Brutton. A few players in red ran by and he instantly recognized the kid Brian, who had helped him earlier. The guy was in the lead, heading for the goalie on the opposite side of the field.

"And SCORE!"

The commentator screamed. Sam glanced up and saw above the bleachers on the right side of the field a little box, where a tiny little man in a bright-blue blazer suit danced erratically waving around a tiny mike. His announcement was barely audible compared to the crowd's explosive roar. The fans on the other side of the field booed and jeered, waving around their blue and green flags.

**BOOM. BOOM B-BOOM.**

Shaking his head against the constant pounding, Sam quickly made his way to the bleachers. Scanning through the many people in light winter gear, he finally found Leann. Stationed in the middle, she was the most noticeable with the colors of the school painted in peace symbols on her cheeks, red and gold ribbons in her hair, and the blowhorn in her hand. She looked the least bit disappointed, but her upbeat mood did perk up at the sight of him.

"Oh thank God Sam! I thought ewe got caught or something!" she yelled, giving him a mighty hug.

"N-no," Sam wheezed, coughing a bit. "No. You said seven. It's nearly over?" he had to yell too.

"Yeah. Ewe didn't hear the change of time? They made an announcement around two-thirty today."

Sam only shook his head in response.

"Well shoot," Leann shrugged. "Um, ewe just caught the near ending. We're winning by a landslide. And I thought the Drillers were good! WHOOO!" She pulled the button on the horn.

The sound blasted and Sam bent over to cover his ears. It hurt painfully, nearly producing tears. "Shit!"

**BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.**

Of course, of all places Leann to sit, it had to be beside the band in the bleachers. The drums went crazy, the horns also chorusing loudly.

"Number twenty-three Brian Leiverman scores another goal. Devils in lead thirty-eight to two. Go DEVILS!" the announcer called.

Brian ran back to his fellow teammates, unabashed by the opposing teams' fan's boos and insults. He sat down on the bench, the coach putting a towel over his head to soak up the sweat. The other players went out on the field, ready for the next play. A fellow player, Sam recognized as Brian's right-hand man, Manny Patterson, patted his back giving him more encouragement.

A bright twinkle lit up in Leann's eyes. She stood up from her seat. "Hang tight there, Sam-o. I'll be right back. Gotta get a drink."

"Okay," Sam replied watching her fly down the bleachers' steel steps. He let out a sigh disappointed that he missed most of the game, but also relieved that it would end early. The cold penetrated, biting further into his skin, the bulk of the sweaters unable to impede. It was times like this he was glad he brought his medicine. He looked at his watch, actually hoping the game would end soon so he could get back inside.

"Come on," he breathed.

* * *

The last stretch to the Impala was taken at a sprint. John and Dean were taking no chances, trying to get out of the woods as early as possible. The guns were useless at this point, swinging limply by their sides as they ran. Shadows flitted off all around them, and Dean was hard pressed to say he was scared. The thing he encountered earlier was fast; much too fast to his liking, so running was in accordance.

Soon they finally reached the car on the side of the road near Mrs. Woodstein's house, out of breath and shaking. Dean glanced behind him every few seconds, keeping his eyes peeled on the woods. His father did the same, alert for any followers.

After a few minutes, the woods were quiet. Nothing stirred. Not even the singsong crickets.

Dean continued to pant. "I don't know Dad. Do you think—"

He was cut off when his father pulled him into an embrace. His father hugged him tight, barely allowing him to breathe. "Uh…D-dad. C-can't breathe."

"Sorry. Sorry," John gasped, pulling away. Then he began to look him all over, patting his arms and sides. "Are you okay? Did it get you anywhere? What did it do?"

"Dad. Dad! Quit it. I'm okay," Dean pushed him off politely. "It didn't do anything. Just dragged me off, no doubt to be its dinner. But I'm okay."

John gave off a great sigh of relief. "It didn't scratch you or anything?"

"No."

"Did you see it?"

Dean shook his head in dismay. "Nada. We were moving so fast and it was so dark, there was no way I could've seen it. If that Calvin dude hadn't come," he made an axe movement across his neck.

"Yeah and that's what scares me. I'm sorry for asking about how you are now. I didn't get a chance to while the gun was on us. You sure you're okay?"

"Yes Dad, I'm fine. Stop asking."

John blew out another long-winded breather. "S'good thing we are coming back in the morning."

"Why's that?"

"Cuz when you were being dragged off, I passed the house the old woman was talking about in trying to find you. If it's on Calvin's property, then we might have another lead."

Dean paused. That meant coming back into the woods. Dammit! "Oh."

John made his way over to the driver's side. "Alright let's go. Forget town, we're calling it in early."

"You serious? We're not getting more guns and going after the thing. At least we know now it's a thing. And not some hoodoo worshipper."

"No," John said sharply. "We know nothing about it. For all we know, there could've been more of those things, and we were walking straight into its den. We're coming back in the morning."

That was a shocker. Dean nearly had to clutch his chest. His father, Mr. Badass, doesn't want to go back after the thing. It kinda scared him a bit, because mainly that meant his father was really shaken up. And that was never a good thing. "But Dad, how do we know it won't be any different in the daytime than what just happened?"

"You're right. We don't. But I have a feeling that this thing is stronger at night. So far, it has only ever attacked at night. So there's a clue. Now get in the car," John ordered.

Dean did as was told, hopping in the passenger seat.

"Are you sure you're not hurt?" John asked again.

"Jesus Dad, yes! I'm fine. Why do you keep asking?"

"Because we don't know what this thing is. And I'm not taking any chances with you catching something. You got me?"

Finally able to connect to his Dad's concern, Dean shrugged. "Yeah. I gotcha."

"Good," he turned the car on, punching on the gas in turn creating a little doughnut in the gravel. "Wait until we get to the bottom of the hill and call your brother. Tell him to look up anything that can only stay in the dark. And tell him we're on our way back, and I want that report done by the time we get there."

"Yes sir."

* * *

"SCORE AGAIN. This is unreal. Lieverman does it again! Devils ahead fifty-two to five. With thirty seconds to go on the clock!"

The commentator was on a roll. The little man raved ecstatically, shouting non-stop the minute the Devils began their slaughter on the Drillers. The band too was on a roll, beating and blasting their horns, the jumble of horns and rings escalating to one big thunderous roar.

Sam had to keep his eyes closed, waiting for the onslaught on his ears to dissipate. It was becoming rather hard to continue watching. The cold seeped into his bones, like he'd been sitting in an icebox the entire day. A small tremor undulated throughout his body, and he knew time to head back was nigh.

It had been a good half and hour and his dear friend had not returned. A slight tingle of worry flourished in his gut. Taking out the bottle from his inner pocket, he swallowed three gulps of the cough suppressant before getting up. The bleachers swayed from side to side and bounced, feeling like waves beneath his feet. Any minute, it felt like the entire stand would collapse. Luckily there were railings.

**BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.**

Sam finally managed to stagger off the wavepool of metal. Coughing some more, he headed out in search of his friend. All the while the fans, and town locals raved, hollering when the commentator said: "WE WIN! DEVILS TO DRILLERS FIFTY-THREE TO FIVE!"

The soccer team jumped up and down exuberantly. Many of the people in the grand stands ran onto the field, congratulating the team. Sam had to fight to get through the swarms of people running off the stands. He called out to Leann several times. His voice became sore the longer he called. Eventually he figured it was pointless, because trying to yell over this type of crowd was like trying to hear a firecracker at a Ted Nugent concert.

He eventually made his way over to the concession stand, where Leann said she was going. She wasn't anywhere around. The tingle increased as he faced the crowd again. Sucking in a deep breath, he scanned every part of the growing mass of people, attempting to find a way through. Glancing at the darkness under the bleachers, it seemed like a suitable way to the other side.

Climbing under the panels of metal was like trying to be a gymnast on the monkey bars. If it wasn't for his hopefully soon-to-be longer legs, it wouldn't be a problem. But as his luck wasn't always the greatest, he had to make an effort. He was nearly to the other side when a couple of familiar voices were heard. Looking ahead, he found the voices belonged to Brian and Leann. Brian, it seemed, was able to get away from the mayhem storming on the outside. He appeared as though a bit upset. Ducking down, Sam listened intently.

"Stop Leann. I'm serious."

"As am I," the girl replied sharply, holding onto his hand tightly.

Brian fidgeted in her grip. "Look. I like you. I really do, but I can't. I think you're a wonderful person and a great friend. And I don't want to hurt you, okay?"

"Brian, would—"

"Leann seriously. I'm sorry. I can't do this. I already have a girlfriend. Kara's probably looking for me right now," Brian whined.

Sam half-expected Leann to break down and cry. But it seemed that the girl could've cared less. "Okay, Brian. I get it. Ewe don't have to say much more. But that's not what I want to talk to ewe about."

"Then what is it?"

"I was at the concession stand waiting in line. And that's when the assistant coach Terry came up, cut in front of everyone. Then I heard him talking. He seemed a bit confident that the team was gonna win. I mean, don't get me wrong. Of course, we were gonna win," she jabbered on.

Brian slacked, waiting impatiently for what the girl had dragged him off to say.

"…but that's when he started saying stuff to the guy in the back. He seemed a bit shady, like he was sneakin or something. Ewe know me, gotta a soft spot for gossip. So I kinda hung back…and listened on."

"Okay? What did he say?" Brian insisted.

"Brian. I can't be a hundred percent sure, but I swear I heard him saying something like he drugged the other team."

Brian shook his head, hoping he heard right. "What?"

"Yeah. He said he put something in their cooler. And that it was a sure thing the Devils win."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty positive. I got ears like a cat."

Sam had to roll his eyes. No shit, she had ears like a cat. What feature about her didn't resemble a cat of some type?

Brian stomped his sweat-clad cleat, pursing his lips. "No way."

"I'm sorry. Now I don't if the guy was making it up or what. But that's what I heard," Leann continued.

"No, I think you're right. Something was off with those guys. They weren't at all like they were last year. And this actually makes sense," he huffed. "SHIT! I can't believe this. Okay. I have to get to the bottom of this. I gotta know."

"Yeah."

Brian sighed. "Thanks Leann. Thanks for telling me. I'll uh…I'll see ya around."

"Sure thing," she responded giving him a mighty hug. "Go find out."

He let go, grimacing at the smell her perfume left on him, and then left. Sam remained hidden in his spot, watching her. Her head shook lightly, evident that she was crying. Against the light in the backdrop, large globules of tears slid down her cheeks. He felt bad for her. Then he heard she say to herself that it was time to go home. She left out from under the bleachers quickly.

Minutes later, Sam emerged from his hiding spot. He felt a little better having heard that the game was sabotaged. It wasn't a fair game, therefore he hadn't missed that much. But he still felt a bit sorry—not that she ditched him—but that she somehow poured her heart out to the man she 'crushed', and he was noble enough to tell her the truth. However much he pitied her, he also admired her for standing up for what was right. It was hard to find that sort of quality in people lately.

He took a look at his watch and cursed. He needed to get back home.

* * *

His heart felt like he just ran five miles non-stop, it hammered so hard against his ribcage. Any faster and he was sure it'd pop out. He tried to slow his breathing, but the shock pulsing was overwhelming. Several more harsh coughs tore through his chest at the sight of the Impala parked at the motel.

He paced a little faster silently praying the black hot-rod he saw was a mirage of some type. Placing a hand on the shiny exterior confirmed his fear. His heart beat faster, his breathing quickened. Dread for what was to come niggled and wormed in his gut, increasing the queasy feeling he developed while on the way home. The door was merely a yard away, but he couldn't find the motive to go to it. Who knew what his father was doing on the other side? He was in some major trouble.

The wind whistled by causing the shivering to occur again. His teeth chattered as the shivers augmented. For sure this time they would not abate, for they weren't being caused by the wind.

Slowly he made his way to the door, taking out his key. What else did he expect? And this time, there was no skating out of this one. His Dad probably had the tar and feathers waiting.

The chills amplified as he inserted the key, turning the knob. Confusion struck at hearing nothing coming from inside. It was dreadfully quiet. His hand shook faster once the door creaked open. Closing his eyes, waiting for the axe to be swung, the door opened all the way.

And it was as expected.

John sat on the unkempt bed closest to the door, with his hands on his knees, staring murderously at the doorway. His brother hung in the back, standing faced to the wall with a blank expression.

Sam entered, one cautious step at a time. He closed the door softly, barely making a loud breath.

"Where were you?" His father asked darkly.

Hearing the dangerous undertone, Sam gulped. John was livid.

"I asked, where were you?"

"A-at the s-soccer game, at school," Sam barely stuttered out.

John's head bopped up and down like a weirdo bobble-head. "A game at school. Again with the _school._ Why am I not surprised?" he stood up, crossed over to the TV dresser and threw the lamp off at the wall. The porcelain shattered on impact, the rest of the fixture crashing to the ground. Sam jumped, inwardly flinching.

"God dammit Sam!" John bellowed, glaring wildly at his son. "Why are you…Why? Why? I want to know why you feel the need to disobey me again. To go out alone. To go at night. "

Sam didn't answer, but knelt his head down submissively.

"What? No lame-ass excuse this time. You know, I can't really describe what I am feeling right now, but I've had enough. You are so selfish, I can barely look at you. Always thinking about number one, huh?"

Sam still remained mute. He couldn't think of anything to say, other than that he knew he deserved this. Dean stayed put in his blank robotic stance.

"I needed you on this hunt. People's lives are at stake, and all you're worried about is some freaking test. Or some petty science-fair. And now some soccer game. For what? To keep your social life in tact? Selfish Sam. That's selfish. I mean your brother was nearly killed tonight, but that doesn't mean anything to you, does it?"

Sam's head shot up, wide-eyed. He looked over at his brother who shook his head solemnly.

"Dad, don't—"

"You stay out of this Dean," John spat.

"It's not like that Dad," Sam mumbled, the shivers returning with a fury.

"Oh really? Sorry if that's very unconvincing. God, I am so disappointed in you. I can't trust you to listen to me. I can't even trust you to pick up the freaking phone," he picked up the motel's phone and tossed it at the wall as well.

John rounded on him, "And this is why I don't like taking you on hunts. You never contribute to anything. Always asking useless questions about whether its evil or not. Hate to break it to ya kid, if it's not human, then it's evil. They're all evil. The sooner you get that through your thick head, the better. If you don't get out of this attitude, then you'll never be more than a liability."

His father's tirade now struck a fiery chord. All Sam had ever done was listen, and now it was time to stand his ground. He'd been living this life long enough.

"That's right. I'll always be a liability. Always have, and apparently always will," he argued.

"Don't you backtalk me. You're in a lot of trouble young man."

"Yeah, when am I ever not in trouble with you? Always bossin' me around like my life means nothing. Then tell me, why? Why does it always have to be like that? Always about hunting this or hunting that, anything else that's not described as human."

"Because once you know about the supernatural, all the crazy things, and all the evil things that happen to people, then it becomes your responsibility. You wanted to know, so we told you. And there's no going back. Hunting is your life now, so you might as well get used to it," John answered cruelly.

"Y-you're wrong. T-this i-isn't going to be my life forever."

John crossed his arms, raising a bushy eyebrow. "What're you going to do? Get up and leave? Go ahead, I'm not stopping ya."

Sam said nothing. He just stood there shivering.

"That's what I thought. Now…"

"Wait," Dean called out, stepping forward. "Why are you shivering?"

Sam merely shrugged. "I'm…I'm just c-cold."

"How? It's only fifty degrees outside," Dean replied with a bit of concern. The most he had shown the kid recently. And now that he had begun to think, Sam was looking a bit pale with terrible dark circles beneath his lids.

John scoffed. "Knock it off Sam."

"No seriously Dad. It's time for bed. We've all had a long day, and we're about to have a longer one tomorrow. Sam will make up for it tomorrow, okay? We'll take him with us."

John rolled his eyes. "Whatever. You know I have no time to deal with you right now. Get out of my way and get to bed," he said to Sam, "I'll come up with your punishment later."

"Fine," Sam murmured.

* * *

Brian Leiverman laid alone on his bed. He refused to go out that night and party with everyone else; refused to go around the town celebrating or even talking about his victory. It was a victory hardly worth won. All that work he had done, all that hard training on the weekends, thrown down the drain because the team didn't want to take any chances of failure.

They were hardly a team at all since they felt the need to neglect telling him the truth of putting some form of sedative in Brutton's water cooler. All the team's members were sluggish, barely focused. It was a wonder how they had managed to get to the finals. Disappointment and disgrace were two nasty demons sitting on his shoulders, weighing him down heavily. So much it took a great effort to pull on his nightclothes.

There was a knock on his door. It opened and in entered his identical thirteen year old sister Marlee, as usual, in a flamboyant tie-die shirt and holey jeans, and his girlfriend Kara who dressed more to her age group with a low-cut jean skirt and baby pink tank-top. Or he thought it was pink, it was hard to tell from the dim lighting.

Marlee flung herself on his bed, settling next to him, whilst Kara slowly sat next to his head, pressing a gentle hand to his back.

"What's up Brian? I thought you were going out tonight. But y'know if you like hanging out and celebrating in the dark, I can call Batman and set cha' up," Marlee quipped.

Sighing in dismay, too depressed to really put on a fake mask for his lil' sis, he retorted with, "That's okay Marlee. He charges too much to use the Batcave, especially for the clean-up fee."

Kara ran a hand along his tee-shirt. "Hmmm, but it's absolutely worth it when the lights stay off," she raised her eyebrow in a provocative manner, lying down beside him, "If you get my drift?"

"Hmmm, exactly," he agreed biting her earlobe.

Marlee grimaced, throwing her frizzy blonde ponytail away from her face. "Ewww. How convenient? Of all times to lope and grope, it's now," the rambunctious pre-teen groused slithering off the bed. She scoffed, turning on her heel when her brother began making growling noises, caressing his current beloved ferociously, biting at her tops' straps.

"Gross. I'm just gonna go off and lock myself in the fridge now. Only place where there are sound proof walls," she said to herself on out the door.

As the door closed behind her, the two ceased their playful antics, snuggling up with one another— allowed to appreciate each other's company since they were now alone (which was the whole point!)

Brian sighed, taking in a big whiff of Kara's strawberry scented hair, and then had to spit out when a large chunk of the chocolate locks became lodged in his mouth.

Kara chuckled. "See. That's what happens when you go sniffing, hound dog."

"Yeah, I guess," Brian smiled.

"You wanna tell me what's wrong?" she asked calmly.

He shrugged pathetically. "Nothing's wrong. Why would you assume something's wrong."

"Because I know you. You're only ever quiet when something bad is on your mind. Plus you got all dressed for bed without taking a shower. Gross, by the way," she automatically answered, "It's okay, you can spill."

He looked at her, and even though the room was dark, he could still see the brilliant shine in her blue eyes boring into his own, searching for an unknown truth. Then he took a glimpse into his soul, debating whether he should reveal the truth: his team's secret. Such an act was like breaking the Covenant Oath.

"Come on Brian," she urged, nudging his shoulder with her forearm. "Something's been eating at you ever since the championship. You know I wanna think you were the only one not celebrating tonight. I mean, Hell, you're parents are down with the rest of the guys kicking it off. So I know something's bothering you, and it's starting to drive me nuts. You can tell me. We talked about this. You can trust me with the Holy Grail type of secrets you know?"

Brian stayed silent, registering all that she had said. The guilt over this whole enchilada manifested into one big intangible mess. And keeping his so-called buddies' secret had brought on its share of burdens. He couldn't do that to Kara. Knowing her, she'd set out, track down the entire team, string em' up by their toes, and laugh while using them as a piñata.

So in actuality, he couldn't do that to the team.

Well…

They did deserve it.

Then he realized that he and Kara have been together for three years. They studied together, shopped together, lost their virginity to each other. There hadn't been a single thing they haven't done apart. She was there when he was struggling through Mr. Lawson's class; she was there when he was struggling through the meaty drills of soccer. And vice-versa; he was there and supported her when it came to her ballet recital or when her sister suffered through leukemia. The point being they were no-one without one another. The trust they share grew to a solid form and has never faltered.

"Sometime this century would be nice," she insisted impatiently.

He sighed. Under the said pretense, he decided to fill her in. "The truth is Kara…I…I shouldn't be champion…Or rather the team shouldn't."

Kara donned a puzzled look. "What're you talking about?"

"It was all wrong. We shouldn't have won. It wasn't a fair game."

That answer didn't exactly provide clarity. If anything, Kara's confusion amounted…and she was beginning to wonder if her boyfriend was on something. If he was, she was going to be pissed, because he didn't share. Well, if it made her this moody, then forget it!

"Um…huh? What do you mean it wasn't a fair game? You made all those passes and goals. I watched with my own eyes, and you took down the fiercest player Brutton had. Don't tell me it wasn't fair. You won hands down."

Brian appreciated the enthusiasm. It didn't help matters one bit. "But I didn't?"

"How the hell not?"

He sighed again. "It's complicated."

Kara gave him an indignant glare. "Should we start the twenty questions game? How complicated would it be for me to understand? Now please, do me this one favor and get your head out of your ass and tell me. I want to help you, but you're not exactly making this to be 'easy peezy lemon squeezy'."

Resigning to the fact that the woman's tenacity could win her the Nobel Prize, he decided to relay the events after the final goal. There was no point in delaying when her curiosity was peaked. Morally repugnant with himself, he didn't leave out a single detail, pausing only when he heard scratching and caught the faint smell of something odiferous. By the time he finished, the image of his beautiful girlfriend/future wife changed to a black dragon spitting out fireballs with steam pouring out of her nostrils.

"THOSE BASTARDS!" Kara bellowed at the top of her lungs, hopping off the bed. "They should die. I'm going to make them die. And I can't believe Manny. That scummy low-life piss-ant on a flytrap. I knew he was pitiless, but this…heh, this puts him right at the top of my shit-list!"

Brian slid into a sitting position, reaching out to her, pulling her back to the bed by her shirt. "Hey would you calm down?"

"Don't tell me to calm down," she fumed, "This is insane. You need to tell someone—"

"Who am I going to tell? The coach was even in on it!"

Lowering her voice down to several octaves, Kara said calmly, "There's always someone you can talk to Brian."

His eyes shined. "But if I do, I'll lose my championship…the entire team will."

Kara gaped at him, marveled. "Don't be a coward. You're too good for that. You gotta—" she paused, glancing up.

"What?" Brian queried, intrigued by the abrupt end to her tirade.

Her eyes enlarged, searching all around frantically. "Did you hear that?" she squeaked.

Puzzled, Brian shook his head, "No."

"Shhh, there it goes again," she said.

Listening intently for the source of her paranoia, he looked around. There was nothing. But judging from his girlfriend's face, whatever it was still had her attention. Then not a second later, a rustling beneath the bed sounded followed by a low growl. Kara leapt onto the bed, dragging him back towards the middle of the mattress, squeezing his bicep tightly.

Alert, he carefully pried off her vice grip, pulling her into an embrace. The growl sounded only once, resembling a dog.

The only problem was he didn't have a damn dog!

His own sense of paranoia increased when the rustling continued. Whatever it was, it was moving to the left. Their heads followed the noise, tensing when the choked sound of breathing occurred. "Wha…what is it?" Kara's voice trembled.

"I…I don't know."

The unseen terror growled again, letting out a cacophony of noises similar to a hungry lion stalking its prey. Terrified, the two huddled closer, backwards crawling to the headboard.

"Brian!" Kara sobbed, revealing how petrified she was.

He was right there with her in the same boat. But he couldn't lose his composure. "Shhh…shhh," he tried to soothe. Looking over at his nightstand, he slowly reached for his lamp, instantly flicking it on.

As soon as the light flooded the entire room, the growling ceased. The two slowly gazed at on another with uncertainty. The horrible smell of moldy ass from earlier increased causing them to convulse with disgust.

Brian took a deep breath. He wanted to know just what in the Hell that was all about. Unfortunately, there was only one way to find out. His curiosity was going to get him killed one day. "Okay. I'm going to check it out." His voice came out strong, but courage certainly wasn't what he was feeling. He reached into the nightstand's drawer and pulled out his flashlight, clicking it on.

"No Brian, don't," Kara pleaded.

"It's okay. I'm just gonna see. Stay there alright." Steadily crawling towards the end of the bed, itching with apprehension, simultaneously eager to see who or what they were dealing with. The flashlight's beam danced along the wall as a testament to his over-working nerves.

The closer to the edge he got, the bed creaking down with his weight, another growl echoed. It grew louder, and then suddenly something yanked on the lamp's cord, plucking it off the nightstand, shattering the lightbulb. The room went dark again.

Kara let out a small scream.

Panting from fright, Brian froze peering over the edge. Whatever this was, it didn't appear to be friendly. And he wasn't quite sure hanging over the edge of the bed was such a good place to be. Time to bring in some backup.

"H-hey Kara. Look at me. Look at me," he stated, attempting to calm her down. "I need you to do something for me. There's a pair of scissors inside my drawer. I need you to reach in and pull them out."

She was hesitant at first, then refused shaking her head. "I c-can't. I'm scared."

"I know. I know. I am too. But I need you to do this for me." She shook her head, pulling at clumps of her hair. Brian became desperate. "Baby please. Just reach in and pull them out. We need some form of weapon, kay?"

The word of weapon must've gotten through to her. Figures! Kara nodded, biting her lip, before extending out a shaky hand towards the drawer. Her hand dove in and cautiously swirled around the contents, feeling for any sharp point.

"Can you find them?"

"H**-**hold on."

After rummaging around some more, the increasing fear of leaning over the edge of the queen-sized mattress taking hold, she rapidly pulled her hand out. "B-Brian. I…I c-can't f-find th-them," she stuttered.

He huffed. "Just keep trying. They're in—"

He was so preoccupied in trying to find those scissors that he hadn't noticed two darkened hands shoot out, quickly latching onto his head. It's claws dug in, establishing a firm grip.

_"AHHHHHH…."_

Brian screamed long and loud as those icy hands pulled him off the bed and dragged him beneath. The back of his calves caught the bedframe before he completely descended into darkness.

"BRIAN!" Kara cried leaping off. "BRIAN!" She caught his thrashing legs, pulling on them with all her might.

Brian struggled against the foe, swinging out with his arms, scratching at him with his bitten-off fingernails. He continued to scream and battle…until he felt the sharp intrusion of teeth biting into his skull.

Mortal terror filled within Kara at no longer hearing Brian's screams, only gurgles. She continued to hale and jerk, incessantly calling out his name. "BRIAN! MARLEE!"

A second later, the door burst open and Brian's kid sister entered, alarmed.

"MARLEE HELP!"

The sister didn't hesitate. She ran in and grasped her brother's leg and pulled. "PULL!"

She ordered, her face turning crimson from the strain. "Pull! Come on! Brian!"

This was a joke. It had to be a joke. If not, then what the hell could be doing this? Marlee was so confused. Tears beaded and fell, when she felt the muscle twitches emanate from under the jean-clad legs.

"BRIAN!"

His legs went limp in their grip. With the force the two girls were applying, the instant lack of the opponent force had them fly backwards, landing on their backsides. They sat up first glancing at one another, then slowly faced the front. Their eyes widened, both letting out blood-curdling screams at the sight of Brian's mangled body. The top part of his torso was missing, a trail of intestines stretched out, leading to under the bed.

Marlee continued to scream, fleeing from the room. Kara heard her traveling screams on down the stairs, out the door, and down the street. She felt her breath hitch and her stomach clench. A split-second later, the half-masticated contents regurgitated. Scooting back from the vile contents, she stumbled to her feet backing away from her boyfriend's corpse. Raw and sore whimpers escaped her throat as she continued backwards towards the closet.

A rustling inside the closet occurred. She hadn't heard it. The wooden door flew open. A dark shadowed creature lurched out, latched its robust arms around her torso and snatched her back into the closet. Her screams lasted a mere minute, the last she will ever produce. The closet door slammed shut.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9:**

**Agreements and Stipulations**

The time was in the early dawn hours. With the sun barely peeking over the deciduous trees, the loud ring of John's cellphone blared, instantly waking all three Winchesters, causing them to spring up from their mattresses.

Well, two did…the other one just pretended to be dead.

John was the first to reach his cell located on the TV dresser. "Hello," his sleepy voiced rasped. After a second or two, he exclaimed, "What!"

Apparently the caller was informing about another victim judging by the man's facial expression.

"Okay. When did this happen…last night between? ...the hours of ten and midnight, okay…and what's the address?" Motioning to Dean for a pen and paper, he jotted down the address once Dean procured the needed items.

"Alright," John said to his informant, "We'll be there in a couple of hours. I tracked down a new lead that I want to get to first. See if he knows or has seen anything. I'm expected to be at his farm at 0630. Afterwards, I'll come and scope out the damage. In the mean time, keep the badges off anything that might be a clue…Okay. Thanks Langton. I'll see you there." He hung up.

Brushing a hand over his frizzed hair, he turned a sharp eye to his son, who was eager for information. "There's been another attack. A teenage kid and his girlfriend. After we check out the Calvin residence, we'll head over there and check out the scene. Make sure you have your badge."

"Yes sir."

John failed to give out another order as he carried on preparing for the day. Needless to say, the man had it down pat. He was dressed, groomed, and on his way out the door within five minutes. Before he left, he asked, "You want coffee?"

"Yes sir," Dean replied in much-needed gratitude, "Black. Need it as strong as you can make it."

John gave an amused shift of the lips. "Sure thing. And get him up," he pointed at the large elongated blanketed bump on the opposite bed. "Tell him I want no bullshit, no shenanigans. Have everything done and ready to go by the time I get back. I want to be on the road in thirty minutes."

"You got it."

His Dad left, slamming the door shut.

Dean sighed. His Dad was still in a bad mood, and more than likely was going to be in one all day. _Thank you Sammy._ The man was like a ticking time bomb, and Dean now had to figure out how to disable it. Well, first and foremost, he might as well not pull the trigger wire by not stirring the kid (the bomb planter) awake.

"Alright Sammy, you heard the man. And I know you did. Wake up. Time to get dressed," he called out, opening his duffle and sorting through the various tees and three pairs of jeans, musing over what band he was going to be wearing today.

There was no answer, which was expected.

"Come on Sam. The sooner you get up, the less quick you have to be."

Deciding on paying tribute to the one and only band he'd sell his soul for: AC/DC; he pulled on that shirt, followed by his jeans. Whilst searching for his socks down in the bottom of the duffle, he called out Sam's name a third time.

Sam heard his brother calling, but he didn't have the spit…or the care to answer back. His limbs and body felt like they were filled with lead, his head too heavy to even slide across the pillow. Every muscle just seemed like a dead weight, unwilling and uncooperative. His body's refusal to react only resulted in his brother calling his name with more of an edge.

Shuffling around somewhat pre-occupied with now searching for his right boot, Dean continued to call. "Sammy. I'm getting tired of this! Get up little dude."

_Whoa…little?_ That coerced the motionless bump into saying something.

"I'm…not…little," he mumbled drowsily.

Dean's eyes beamed at finding his boot beneath the bed. He pulled it out, flipping out the strings. "You're still a head shorter than me. That makes you little."

"Whatever," Sam replied sourly at his rebuttal. "What time is it?"

"Uh, a little past 5:30."

Sam groaned twisting his head back into his pillow. At the sharp twist, a strong spike of pain jolted through, sending a nasty headache spreading all throughout his skull.

"Ugh…" he groaned again rubbing his temple. Since then the lead feeling in his extremities began to loosen, but the aftermath left him unmotivated to move. It was slightly nauseating.

Still running circles on his forehead, he said out loud, "Dean, I don't feel so good."

It came as a surprise when his brother chuckled. "Ha, not going to work Sammy. We gotta a lot of work to do today." He finished tying his shoe.

That nauseating feeling hadn't relented. And after hearing that his Dad most likely had a lot in store, whatever mobilization there was screamed and took off without the hope of returning. Keeping his eyes closed, Sam laid there like a rock.

At the lack of movement, Dean's exasperation for the kid grew…exponentially. He was beginning to agree with his father. "Sam I'm not kidding. Time to get up. Dad will be back soon. And Hell if I'm going to get caught in the crossfire," he crossed over and yanked off the blankets.

Sam flinched when the draft of cool air hit his slightly sweaty body. A chill swept through making him feel worse. Mutual feelings of irritation and anger shot towards his brother. He couldn't just have a few more minutes?

Dean latched onto his arms and pulled him rather forcefully into a sitting position, answering his question.

"Now, up."

It was still difficult for Sam to open his eyes. He slumped over, his head resting on his chest. The headache that sparked now began to throb. "Dean, really. I'm not a hundred percent today."

Intrigued, the older brother felt his head, then his cheeks. "Hmm, you don't feel too warm," he said, obviously still under the impression that the little brother was pulling a trick. "But if you are feeling worse than a porkster constipated after loading on a whole weekend's worth of chili-dogs, then nothing but a good hot, steamy shower shouldn't take care of."

The awful nausea returned ten-fold after that analogy. Sam rolled his eyes, slowly raising himself off the bed. He moved awkwardly like a person who recently recovered hip surgery. Dean helped him trudge towards the bathroom.

"There ya go Sammy. Get on in there. Now if you're not done, dressed, and ready to go by the time Dad gets back…with the way he's feeling, he's gonna have us both singing the Star-Spangled Banner in soprano. So put a lift in it."

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah," Sam answered nonchalantly, closing the bathroom door. He didn't care. No matter what he does from now on, it won't mollify his father's agitation with him, not one bit. So since he was feeling like horseshit, he was going to take his time. One thing was for sure he was in the mood for a long shower. The water might help with the congestion in his chest.

Turning on the showerhead, one thing was brought to his attention.

_Ah crap! _

He forgot about the cold-water nasal. Without it, the water would become too hot for his liking. He groaned. Guess it would have to be a short one.

After jumping in, enduring the scalding spurts, and jumping back out, he was dressed and pulling on his shoes by the time his father arrived, carrying two cups of coffee. Sam was at least expecting him to bring some form of breakfast material, but he wasn't that hopeful. John didn't even look at him, just closed the door and handed the other cup to Dean. Sam wasn't too hurt by it. He wasn't a big coffee drinker. And knowing their current budget, his father probably only had enough for those two cups and maybe a pack of gum.

After finishing and discarding the retched cup, his father finally turned to him. "Good, now that you've had your beauty sleep. Get going. I want you in the car in two minutes. No stalling or backtalk."

Sam glared at his retreating back as he left out the door. He didn't know what he was expecting, but the man's attitude hadn't change. And understanding how his father works, his invading illness would have to be put on hold. Collecting his bag, zipping up his jacket, he followed his family members outside.

The frostbitten dewy air hit like a hornet sting. It caused an immense tickle to sprout in his fragile throat, setting off a round of powerhouse coughs. Covering his mouth, suffering through the violent chest-wreckers, he made his way into the car where his father and brother were waiting for him.

* * *

There was hardly any time for a short catnap. Shortly after the family left the motel, John was pulling the Impala on down a long, bumpy private road located far off in Ranger Rick territory. Sam bounced up and off the backseat, grimacing at the ache the rocky roller-coaster ride was putting on his chest. Every part of his body was tense. His hand gripped tight against the door handle in an attempt to sustain the blows, the strain in his upper arm becoming a menacing ache after a while.

In the front seat, he could see Dean's jaw clenched. Obviously the older brother was a bit worried about the condition of his future car. Since the rain yesterday, much of the dirt road eroded away, leaving behind more potholes and rocky bumps. But that wasn't allowed to be a factor. The news of two more murders the previous night had them all tense with apprehension.

Over the past six months, Sam barely found the time to tour a majority of the town. Never was he allowed to come to the outskirts of it. Looking out the window, there wasn't a single thing he recognized. Mostly lots and _lots _of trees. Oaks, yews, and pines all passed by in a kaleidoscope of greens and yellows. Scraggly branches hung loosely scraping the car's sides. Turning to the other window, he wasn't entirely surprised to find more trees. The radiant hot sun glimmered past, the multitude of timberland shielding its incandescent shine.

Sam bit his lip, holding his mouth. His stomach twisted with each sharp turns and veer, much like a horse suffering from colic. As the car ride continued, his morning regret of hardly having eaten was abolished. The queasy sensitivity tripled since he awoke. Blinking mostly to shield his tiresome eyes from the dazzling glints of the glossy green leaves, he snuggled his head into the crook of the door where he was pulled into a light, but otherwise comfortable doze.

That lasted all but five minutes before the Impala skidded amongst the gravel road. Startled by the abrupt stop, Sam blinked away the heaviness that briefly invaded his eyes. Once they adjusted, the first thing he registered was that he was alone. His father and brother had exited the car. John was already walking away, gaining a good distance with his long stride, whilst Dean remained by the passenger door. He rubbed the sides of his head, as another piercing ache sprouted. Perhaps his eyes had yet to adjusted to the morning light.

Slowly climbing out of the backseat, his feet fell on long undernourished tufts of grass. Observing the rest, the entire ground was an entire array of white, brown, and green patches; definitely nothing worthy of _Home and Garden_. More terrible coughs erupted, choking on the stale air. He recognized the type of atmosphere: usually associating it with cemeteries or death.

Covering his mouth, crossing around the back of the trunk, Sam saw the rest of the property and a house. A smoky-gray box farmhouse stood out from all the rest, in need of desperate refurbishes and a paint job. Patches of paint lay peeled, suspended off in large quantities around the main door, around the addition sidehouse, and around the two windows on the second story. Strips of black and brown shingles adorned the roofing; in some parts missing, revealing termite-infested and weathered boards beneath.

Clucking alerted his attention off to the side. Several yards from the house resided a grand chicken coop, almost the size of the main house. Rickety wood paneling and rusty chicken wire made up its exterior, with a few hens pecking at the ground. Mounds of cement bricks and wood 2x4 pieces lay scattered all around the coop. Patched and holey tarps covered a mound of hay lying next to the coop, flapping lazily with the soft breeze.

In short, the place was a dump.

Wiping off the side of his mouth, Sam made his way over beside his brother, hoisting his backpack up over his shoulder a bit more. The darn thing was heavier than a pile of bricks. A wave of fatigue washed over him and he leaned against the backdoor, glad for the support.

Loud voices turned his attention to the house, where he saw his father converse (rather harshly) with whom he supposed was the owner. A dumpy sort of man slouched, waving pudgy hands around in what looked like a heated debate. Greasy sallow skin stood out, along with a thick patch of dark hair on top of his head. Dirt and grease spots stained a white tee stretched to its limit over a largely rounded belly. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd say the man was pregnant.

Clearing his throat, watching more of the two men, he said in a scratchy voice, "It's going well, don' cha' think?"

His brother said nothing, standing stiff with his hands buried deep into his leather jacket.

"Dad seems—" Sam coughed, "…a b-bit more, y'know…anal?"

"The job's been getting to him," Dean automatically replied, still staring straight ahead. "Two more people bought it last night."

A small measure of shock hit. Sam only shook it off, immune to the news of death. Years of serving with a father and a brother who loved to hunt the supernatural; he had his fair share of obituary news. "Oh crap. No leads still?"

Dean shifted his weight from foot to foot. The look on his face merely suggested that something was bothering him. "Nah. That's why we're here. We ran into whatever it was last night and it was on this guy's property."

"Did you get a good look at it?"

"Nope." Disappointment showed when he scuffed his foot along the gravel. Dean sighed eyeing the woods to the side of the dump. "It was too dark. One thing I know for sure was it was big, and it hurt like a bitch. I got a bruise the size of Mars on my chest."

"But you're okay, right?" Sam peered at him with concern. The shaky effects after hearing about Dean's close encounter last night hardly wore off. "It didn't do anything else to you…right?"

"I'm here, aren't I? Still got all ten piggly wigglies," his brother snapped sarcastically, bringing his right hand out of his pocket and wriggling each of his phalanges.

"Okay good," Sam breathed. "So what exactly are we doing _here_?"

"Hmm as far I know, just asking the guy a few questions and going to try and find that thing in the daylight."

"Huh?" Sam deadpanned. "Like…going after it. Like all three of us?"

Dean sent a humorous side glare. "Yeah," he replied in a 'duh'-like fashion.

"Oh," Sam inwardly groaned. He wasn't feeling apt for a stroll through some muddy, gloomy woods and possibly meeting the Big Bad. "Great. D'ya think Dad'll let up by then?"

Dean bucked his head back with a quick 'ha'. Smiling flippantly, he said, "Eeeehhhh…not likely. The man's wound tighter than a band wrapped around a watermelon. If we don't put a stop to this thing soon…then you can count on a _very expensive firework show_. And it's just you and me brother that's in the crossfire."

"Yeah, especially me. Especially after last night," Sam coughed again, the cold air forcing a strong tickle in his throat.

Dean turned a dark look on him. "Uh huh. About that," he huffed, "Sammy why'd you have to do that? You know how he gets when we're on a hunt."

"I'm sorry!" Sam exclaimed, "It's just after this week, after everything from this stupid job—I wanted out. I wanted to do something just to get out of that damn motel rah, ah…achoo—" he let out a big sneeze, doubling over.

"Bless you," Dean patted his back, waiting on him to straighten back up.

"Thanks." Sam wiped his hands on his jeans, afterward pinching the bridge of his nose. A certain stinging fire struck in his nostrils almost like he breathed in pepper afterwards. The place obviously wasn't settling with him.

"I feel your pain dude, I do," Dean continued, "But—and I don't normally do this—and I know how you typically feel, but _I'm_ asking ya this time. Try to take this a little more seriously. This hunt isn't like the usual _tag 'em and bag 'em_ type. Hell, I'm getting a little freaked out, and you should be too. No more sneaking around to places at night. You're smarter than that."

Disappointment walloped inside Sam's heart at his brother's comment. He could care less about being a screw up in John's opinion, but not Dean's. His brother's outlook on him meant more than his reliability on air. He gave a great sigh. "I know. And again, I'm sorry. I really didn't want to let _her_ down."

"Whoa…her?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, "A friend asked me to go."

"And?"

Sam smirked. Only his brother would forget about the lecture and hound him like a starving puppy about _dating details_. It kinda worked out to Sam's advantage. "And what?"

"Did you really go to the game?"

"Yes. And that's it. We hung out…for a very, very short time."

"Really?"

"Really," Sam reiterated, tugging on his jacket as a shiver ran up his spine.

Dean huffed, shrugging in mock disappointment. "God, you are so lame," he declared.

Sam partly laughed. "Bite me. But nothing really happened. I got to the game late and she kinda ditched me."

"Sorry to hear that man. Better luck next time," Dean gazed at him pitifully.

Sam stood back stunned. For a moment, he swore he saw a glimpse of sympathy emanating greatly from those mossy green eyes. Usually in something like this, big bad brother would've at least made a crack at him, attempt to put a dent in his precarious self-esteem. It seemed as though whatever had happened to him the night before changed him slightly. So the sympathy he believed he saw actually made him feel a little better.

"I know," Sam agreed, looking over at the two adults standing on a seemingly collapsible porch. "Dad still talking?"

"Yep."

"You said two more people died last night?"

"Yeah, two teenagers," Dean answered.

"Teenagers? Who?"

"I don't know, some soccer player and his girlfriend. I think Dad said the kid's name was Lieverman."

Terror pounded into Sam's chest at hearing the name. Turning wide watering eyes towards his sibling, he stuttered out, "Wait…n-not Brian Lieverman?"

Dean returned an unsure expression. "Yeah, maybe…I don't know. I know he was some soccer player." His expression deepened when he saw the tears begin to form in Sam's eyes, and the way he bit his lip; the only time Sam ever made that expression was when he learned of a friend's death. Unfortunately it wasn't the first time, nor shall it be the last. "Did you know him Sammy?"

Still biting his lip, Sam nodded gravely. He nodded again at Dean's reply of 'sorry'. A huge lump formed in his throat, followed by a burning sensation. The tickle tripled and he went into another short coughing fit.

Gazing in concern, Dean softly patted Sam's back, feeling the rippling tension beneath his tips. Long hazardous coughs erupted from the kid. When Sam straightened back up, he asked, "Are you okay?"

Sam cleared his throat, sucking in a deep breath. He wiped away the tears that formed.

"Yea…" he gasped. "Something just…got…caught."

"Oh, you sure?"

"Yeah," Sam waved him away, "I'm fine."

* * *

The scowl that had taken residence on John's face deepened. The man before him was seriously mounting up the frustration points. He only had asked this for the umpteenth time. "Have you heard any strange noises lately?"

"Of course I have," Calvin answered curtly.

"You have?"

"Yah."

"Care to elaborate?"

"No."

John sighed, emitting a small growl. He was real annoyed now. Apart from the usual sly nod or grunt, he received a laugh. The stocky farm owner was incredibly obstinate, annoying, and very rude. Clearly the man was not authority-shy. For the past five minutes, John had the hardest time in just asking a question. Mr. Calvin was out the door and barking at him to not step on his porch the second the dumpy man saw him walking up the walkway. And now, the man was beginning to fray his nerves.

"No? Why not?"

Calvin's large bulging eyes gleamed with mirth. He liked the idea of being in control. "I said ew could look around my woods. I didn't say I'll talk to ew."

"Oh good God man, this is ridiculous," John exclaimed, backing a step. He was nearing his critical point.

"Don't ew take that tone with meh! Ew don't like, yah just get on out here," Calvin remarked, pointing his chubby hand.

"Oh fine. I'll just get. And how bout' I come back later with a warrant, wouldn't have to bother you once I have that. In fact, how bout' I get every single police unit out here, scooping out the area and doing every test and procedure necessary. Would you like that instead?" John countered sarcastically.

Calvin merely glared.

Despite the man's cowering glare and tense posture, John stood his ground. He was in no mood to deal with power-hungry mongrels using the 'property'-value to his advantage. So he went on, using his fake credentials to _his advantage._ "Something nasty is going on and we're trying to do everything we can to stop this. By you willingly refusing to help, you automatically are obstructing justice. And all of this can be taken care of if you just help me out here a little bit."

Calvin nodded his head, shifting his weight from side to side. It was evident he was considering John's statement. The man looked up, slyly glancing over at the two boys by the car. And then a malicious glint formed in his bulging eyes. "Okay sir. I get ewer argument, and ew proved ewer point. Don' want no meddling here. Say what, I'd cut 'ew a deal."

"A deal?"

"Yah."

"Depends on the terms," John stated sternly.

Calvin gave a little smirk. "Obviously. Ew see, I know a lot 'bout what's going on out here in me woods. I've seen sum real nasty stuff. Can't call no sheriff cuz I don' wan em' out here messing with me. And for that I've got meh reasons. But since I got ew, and just _ew,_" he emphasized, "I can work sumthin' out."

John gave off a giant huff of displeasure. Any minute he was about to plow down the man in front of him and take over, consent or not. But this say-so deal? If it was one way to gain a little cooperation, then so be it. He had to get out of here and go to the Lieverman's place before the scummy hunter showed up. Which probably by now was pointless. "Fine. Just don't waste my time."

"Likewise," the bug-eyed man replied snidely. "I help ew if I have someone here helping me. I won't answer no questions until all meh yardwork and housework are done."

John scoffed. "If you think I'm going to slave away, you've got another thing coming…"

"I wasn't talking about ew sir. I understand ewer busy, but I also see two strapping lads over there. Definitely could use their help, just for an afternoon. Meh daughter does the chores normally, but she's sick as a dog right now. Nothing's done without her."

"And you can't do your so-called chores?"

Calvin laughed. "Nah. Got a bad back."

"Oh…figures," John mumbled under his breath.

A little disturbed by this new proposition, he was about to say 'shove-it' and take on the woods himself without this man's help. But then a niggling thought wormed its way in, when he looked at Sam. Maybe there was a way for the kid to participate and serve his punishment in one. It would get him out of the way for the time being.

John shrugged. "That'll be fine, but only one boy. I need the other."

"Fine," Calvin agreed.

John turned around and blew out a shrill whistle. His kids perked up, alert. He waved his hand, issuing the command to come over.

The brothers were a little weary about why they were being summoned. But as usual, they strode over, curiosity always being at the forefront of their minds. Sam followed without complaint, or wonder, still in the throes of shock over Brian's death.

Still somewhat suspicious, Dean stopped a good foot behind John. He eyed the round-bellied man with a mutual sense of distrust and skepticism. His little brother halted slightly behind him, with his head down and hands buried inside his pockets.

"Boys. Dean, as you already know, this here is Mr. Calvin," John introduced.

Dean just nodded as Sam gave a short hi.

"Plans have changed. Dean you and I are going to head over to the Leiverman's house and help out with the investigation there. And Sam, you'll be staying here."

"Huh?" Sam nearly shrieked, half stupidly. That was a new one.

"Yeah Dad, what?" Dean followed up.

The greasy man adopted a sinister smile, his bulging eyes widened gleefully. "Ewer father here opted for ew to stay behind kid, help meh out around the house."

"You can't be serious," Dean exclaimed.

"As a heart attack," John sent a glare.

Sam backed away, wide-eyed. That hike through the woods sounded like a better plan. Hell, he'd much rather get into a one-on-one match with Sasquatch, then bustle and hustle all day cleaning a house. "But dad…"

"No buts," his father interceded, his glare intensifying. "Time you put in a little effort. Just do what he says."

"Don't worry kid. Ew've got nothing to werry bout. It's nothing my Leann can't take care of," Calvin stated.

Sam paused. "Wait, Leann lives here. I didn't know tha—" he coughed.

A fiery glint sparked in Calvin's black sinister eyes. "Ew know my daughter?"

Clearing the tickle, Sam answered unaware of John's growing scowl, "Y-yeah. She's my friend at school."

The father's lip curled, revealing dreadful tooth decay. "Leann's not supposed to be messin with any boys."

"W-we're…we're not messin," Sam defended, "We're just friends." Not understanding the tension, he looked to his family and saw his Dad glaring daggers at him, mouthing for him to shut up. He took the hint and sealed his lips, saying no more.

"Fine then. You've got Sam," John spoke up, "And Sam, you have better listen to him. I'll be back at the end of the day before sundown, and it had better be done. Come on Dean, let's go. We're losing time and daylight."

"Dad I don't think that's such a good idea," Dean protested. He turned around but his father was already walking away. He whirled back around to his little brother. "Sammy?"

Sam shook his head. "Don't worry about it Dean. Go. I'll be fine. It's not going to be any other way, so just go."

"But…"

"I'll be fine. Just go." He sounded defeated.

"Dean!" came their father's sharp yell.

Dean huffed, his body involuntarily turning on his heel. He looked back at Sam one last time. His little brother merely shrugged and started towards the house. With a deep sense of dread, Dean continued onward towards the car.

"About damn time you got here," John sneered, hopping into the drivers seat, completely unaware of his eldest's eye-roll and mutter of 'stupid bastard'.

Depressed, and utterly miserable, Sam trudged on into the house like he had no purpose. He was tired, sick, and really in no condition to do labor. With the creepy man behind him, he closed his eyes briefly passing out of the small foyer.

Opening them again, hitting a stale stench of cigarettes and alcohol, Sam stopped short. The scene that met his eyes nearly stole his breath away. The place was resembled close to an aftermath of a tornado. It was cluttered, messy, possibly a harbor for deadly diseases. An outsider would announce it as a likely candidate for _Habitat for Humanity_.

Trash, paper products, beer bottles, and other things he couldn't quite comprehend littered everywhere, all along the frayed and holey couch and lounge chair, surrounding an ancient television with rabbit ears, and the creaky wooden floorboards; possibly covering every inch of the square livingspace.

And the smell? It smelt oddly like a combo of rotten cabbage and dirty cat litter, hardly differing from a modern day pig's pen. It worked triple action against his sinuses. _What did this guy do all day?_ _Slob, much!_

He took a hesitant step forward, catching an adjacent room to the right. The cat litter smell seemed to be emanating from there. One look around and already his heart started beating faster. It was a kitchen: a rather medium-sized space with the traditional country-house black and white diamond pattern flooring and white cabinets. Or actually he thought they may have been white, was it not for the dirty stains and cigarette-induced beige spots. A group of five or seven cats all hung lackadaisically on the dirty floor, while another group of four dozed peacefully on a counter.

Sam's body froze, his latent hygienic paranoia taking hold. You couldn't pay him to step in this house, much less force him.

"Wha' ew doing? Get in there," Calving spat, shoving the kid forward with his meaty hand.

The strong force came out of nowhere, and Sam suddenly found himself on the floor. Scrambling back to his feet, dropping his backpack, he stood and stared at the man with unexpected fear. Calvin pursed his greasy lips and snarled back. "Now get to work. I want all of this cleaned." He walked past, going to an oversized lounge chair, propping his feet on a worn feeble coffee-table. Picking up a remote, he turned the TV on to an early morning cop show and started laughing.

To describe what Sam was feeling at that moment, it would take an entire book. No matter how achy he felt, how queasy, how miserable, there was no shirking out of this one. This was his father's doing, and he was stuck. Discerning his surroundings from the floor, tears began to well as he searched for the energy, searched for the will to move.

Sometimes he really did hate his father.

* * *

"Dad I think something might be wrong with Sam," Dean stated, after about a half hour into their car ride. He had been fidgeting to say something since the car started again. With the way his father was silent, and how fast he was pushing his Girl, it didn't seem timely. But now the itch to speak became too strong, and he had to scratch it.

Not surprisingly, the man's eyes never left the road, his face hardly making a twitch.

"Dad?"

John soughed in irritation. "Why do you say that?"

"I don't know," Dean shrugged. "He just doesn't seem as…as…energetic like he usually is. And also he said he wasn't feeling good this morning. I thought he might have been faking it, but the cough he just had…eh, ya can't fake that."

"Dean," his father whined, "your brother is fine. More than likely he's just pulling a few strings just so he can get out of his punishment. He always knew how to play you. You gotta let him grow up. He's gotta put forth some effort into this thing."

"You've said that, but—"

"No! If he really weren't feeling well, then he would have said something," John argued.

"Dad, he has said something."

"Not to me."

"Well of course not to you," Dean blurted. "The kid may be on his deathbed and he won't call to you. And I mean no disrespect, but anytime something's wrong with that kid and you're nearby, he'll keep it to himself."

John sent a hard glare. "What're you trying to say?"

"I'm saying, maybe we should go back. I don't think leaving Sammy at Bob the Slob's house was an Einstein of an idea."

His father's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Dean, Sam's fine. Now please, keep your head grounded. We need to buckle down and figure out what this thing is and where we're going to find it. No one else is dying tonight. As for your brother, he dug his own pit when he played hookey last night, no doubt having the time of his life. The least he could do is sit in it and work on the case by helping Calvin out. At least we know where he is now. Now shut yer yap and stay focused. We have a lot to do today, am I understood?"

Dean didn't answer immediately. Confusion pounded into him as if he instantly said he was a hooker-nun. Strong burstful feelings thundered, beat at his insides, telling him, urging him to betray his father and return to his sibling. But the loyal, obedient soldier within him demanded he stay and listen to his general.

"Dean?" his general called.

With bated breath, Dean reluctantly answered, "Yes sir."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10:**

**Ye of Little Faith**

When the two Winchesters had arrived at the scene of the latest attack, it was as expected: overcrowded and disheartening. Cops and local officials swarmed the two-story house; it's yard, and it's surrounding yards. Flashes of red, blue, and yellow illuminated all around, constituting a spotlight for the entire neighborhood to see. Groups of friends and neighbors lined the perimeter of the yellow tapes, talking, crying, mingling and gossiping over the unfolding scene. Several cops ambled back and forth, trying to find something to do, when in reality they knew there wasn't a whole lot to do. So many took up the job of maintaining the growing crowd, while the forensic analysts went about the same procedure, sampling and collecting, much in the same way as the other sites.

Over the commotion, there stood a couple in one another's embrace, pointed at and spoken about to the local news. A man and his wife with blank faces, staring absent-mindedly at the over-run ground at their feet. Their eyes were a deep shade of red with tear tracks outlining the cheeks of their pale faces, completely oblivious to the cop's questioning. A few of their neighbors called their names, attempting to gain their attention, but it seemed as if they were dead to the world.

Dean looked on with pity, surmising that these people had to be the parents. The couple was reported to be out celebrating their son's victory with the rest of the town, during Brian's attack. He could understand their misery. No one should have to endure the passing of his or her child; much less in the way Brian had died. Passing through the yard and by the two ambulances, it was hard not to notice them. However difficult it was not to sympathize, Dean trudged onward following his stubborn father out of the house.

Chills worked strenuously through his frame after the quick run-through of the teenager's bedroom. The scene had left both he and his father a little unnerved and in jitters. The body of the boy was taken away by the time they arrived at the room, but the rest of him had yet to be cleaned. They walked in while an analyst was stuffing the rest of spilt and broken intestines into a plastic baggy. It took all Dean had to not throw up. His father appeared unbothered and went ahead with the routine, thus giving Dean the courage to carry on with their work. Silently, he gave a small prayer of thanks that Sammy didn't get to see that.

John's irritability had peaked a notch or two after the assessment of the house. He completed a quick scoop to look for small passageways into the room from where the beast could have come in. After finding no such ways—not even an airvent—it was a wonder if the thing had managed to get inside before Brian had come home.

Fairly certain that wasn't the case, the elder Winchester became increasingly more upset feeling that coming to the Leiverman's house was a massive waste of time after finding up with no real resolution. Langton sounded so convincing in that he needed to make an appearance. But for what, it still eluded him. Even searching through the closet also resulted in no new leads. There were hair samples close to the ones at the Hymen's place, along with more blood and shredded clothing. It didn't take a genius to figure out where the girlfriend had ended up. But there was no other clue that led to the beast's identity, nor place of slumber.

At least by now, he knew it was _a thing._

No one dared to bother him given the look he wore. What he felt best in doing now was heading back to Calvin's and scouting out his woods. The _thing_ was there last night, just shortly before it came after Lieverman. The logical thing to do was search for it now, in the daylight, in the last place they encountered it. Forget the crime unit.

The two Winchesters crossed under a yellow tape, heading back to the Impala.

"Hey Winchester," someone called.

Both John and Dean halted, turning around. Each let out a groan of dismay at seeing it was the petulant detective Willis strutting towards them with a sense of pride and smugness. "Been looking for you. What were you doing? Disciplining your kid?"

"That's no business of yours," John growled.

Willis half-chuckled sarcastically. "Down Rover. No need to get frisky. I just came to give you a treat."

"What do you want?"

"I got something you might like," Willis answered pulling out a plastic bag with "Evidence" written in big red letters. Something dark and slimy settled at the bottom of it. "Found it underneath the bed."

John squinted at the bag, taking it from the man's grubby hands. "What is it?" he observed it in a circle.

"Not sure."

The black material inside slid back and forth in the plastic. Black slime smeared along the sides as the piece moved. John opened the baggy and smelt it, jerking away and snarling in disgust. It smelt horribly like an odd combination of backed-up sewer and body-odor. The thing was blue and black with tough bristles like hair standing askew on it. If John didn't know any better, it resembled a slab of skin.

Willis pointed at it. "Looks like a possible sample from our suspect. Whatever it is, the kid took a good chunk out of it before it ripped him in half. I tried seeing if there was anything else that it might have left, but nothing. It cleaned up good and plenty."

Dean shot a furtive glance at the man when he said _whatever_. Seeing the strong side glare exhibited by his father, he knew John had picked up on the word too.

Both Winchesters' attentions turned back to the bag. John raised it up more in the sunlight, squinting at the slime adhering to the slab. The contents in the bag suddenly started smoking, the slime bubbling. The bluish tinge of the skin began to blacken and disintegrate. John quickly lowered the bag out of the sunlight and back into their shadows, noting the sizzling had stopped.

"What the hell was that?" Dean exclaimed, peering closer at the bag.

"I don't know, but it sure is something," Willis commented immediately taking the evidence bag out of John's hand, and pocketing it. "We'll know more once the team does some tests."

"Ha, they won't find nothing," John muttered, turning away.

"What was that?" Willis asked.

"Nothing," he turned around facing Dean, acquiring a new thought. It was obvious Dean had picked up on it, as he moved in closer.

"What do you think Dad?"

John knelt his head down, barely producing a whisper as he saw Willis trying to listen in. "I'm not sure yet. But you saw what it did when I put it in the sunlight. So maybe that's good news. It's the best thing we have so far. It could tell us how to kill it."

"Yeah, but Dad if that thing only comes out at night, then how do we get it in the daylight?"

John shrugged, unable to think of a plausible strategy at the given moment. They still needed to figure out what the creature is. "Well, we won't know until we find it first."

"True sir," Willis butted in, stepping closer to the huddle. "We'll find the culprit, and I'll put an end to it."

"_We'll_ put an end to it," John corrected.

"Right," the cheeky bastard smiled.

"Hey Dad, look," Dean said, nodding over to a bench across the street where a little girl sat hunched, staring mindlessly at the pavement.

"Ehhhh, I wouldn't get your hopes up," Willis spoke up nonchalantly, "That little twig over there is the kid's sister, Marlee. Says she saw the whole attack. But that girl ain't talking. I already tried to get as much as possible out of her, but not much luck. She seems deafer than a board."

Dean sent a critical glare toward the fraudulent detective. Of course, the kid wasn't going to talk. She just witnessed her brother die in the most horrible way. Situations like that is bound to leave someone cracked and silent. Dean wouldn't speak if that had happened to him at that age, especially not to the likes of Willis. If he was repulsed by the over-egotistical attitude, no doubt the traumatized sister was. But even if someone else had attempted to question her, he didn't expect her to talk…

…at least, maybe…not to an adult.

He cocked his head to the side. Or perhaps she _wouldn't_ talk to an adult. If he were at that age, he wouldn't speak to anyone, understanding how adults would react. He offered Willis a sarcastic grin. "Shall I?"

Willis waved. "Be my guest kid, if it'll make you feel that you have any importance."

Dean just laughed at the negative comment, taking off at a long stride. He looked both ways before crossing the street, feeling a little foolish when he knew the street was blocked. But as safety was drilled into his head since a tot, it came as a second nature. So he shrugged and continued, approaching the bench cautiously as though approaching a startled horse.

"Is this seat taken?" Dean asked quietly.

As expected, he hadn't received a response from the little girl. She was still, statue-like, her expression vacant. Strands of her honey blonde hair stuck out in all places out of her ponytail, with frizzy tangles hanging down by her cheeks. Her cheeks, Dean observed, were of the palest white he had ever seen, and her dark eyes were red, diseased with grief.

The girl had been through a rough night. So it only seemed fair to get this part done as quickly as possible. Dean sat down on the damp bench without the consent. "Marlee, is it?"

"Leave me alone," came a tiny hiss.

Not at all fazed by the harsh reply—considering how many he has received since taking up this job—Dean still sat, leaning forward onto his knees. _Nice and easy, subtle as a snake_. "Sure. I understand how you feel…"

The girl blew out a heavy huff, rolling her eyes to the side.

"…but now's not a good time to be alone, don't you think?" Dean continued, "I know I wouldn't want to be."

"I don't want to talk to anymore cops," Marlee's lip trembled, a large tear falling down smoothly along one of the many tear-tracks.

"Well honestly I can say I'm not a cop. My dad's a cop right now, but I'm not a cop," Dean answered truthfully.

"You're not?"

"Nope."

"Then why are you here?" she gazed at him suspiciously.

Dean clasped his hands together, returning a heartfelt look. "I just want to know if you're okay…plus I wouldn't mind knowing what happened to you and your brother."

Marlee sniffed, wiping her nose on her wrist. "And why should I tell you. You'll just laugh. Nobody will believe me."

"That's not true. Believe it or not, but I've seen enough crazy things in my life that sometimes I question whether or not if I'm a few fries short of a happy meal. But when I realize that what I've seen is real, then I do what I can to help those around me."

"Like what?"

"Like…what we're doing right now. I don't know what happened to you or your brother," he lied, "but it's kind of obvious that it's getting to you, and that you're not quite sure."

Marlee turned a threatening glare his way. But as Dean received more hard glares than skittles in his lifetime, it was hard pressed to say it affected him.

"Look," he offered with his hands spread apart, "what I'm trying to say is for something like this, if I knew something bad, real bad, and kept it to myself—no matter how long—I'd go nuts. So I talk about them, get it out in the open. What harm could it do?"

"Again why? Why do you want to know?" the girl raised her voice, obviously frustrated. "My brother died by some freak accident. Nothing more. Nothing got to him. It wasn't anything!"

"That's not true, and you know it," Dean stated calmly.

"Oh really? Then tell me!" Marlee shrieked.

"Cuz I have a feeling that you loved your brother. You loved him more than anything else in the whole world," he began, watching the girl beginning to settle, "And because of that, you wouldn't lie about him. You wouldn't lie about what happened to him, what happened to his girlfriend. He wouldn't want you to. And I also have a feeling that you saw something. Something mean. And you're also wondering if you're crazy or not. But what I can tell you is that you're not. It's okay. You can tell me. No matter how weird it seems. I'll believe you."

"How? I mean…I don't know…I don't…even know if I believe it myself."

"Try. Try to remember what exactly happened."

Marlee let out a sob. "I don't…I…it all happened so fast. All I heard was Kara and Brian s-screaming. I r-ran in and B-brian…was underneath the bed. Kara…Kara she was trying to pull him out."

Dean listened intently. "So you know Kara didn't do this?"

"How? Her and I pulled him out, and he…he was…" she broke off into more sobs. "And then I r-r-ran. I ran away. I left K-kara all alone. It got to her. It got to her…"

Completely consumed with sympathy, Dean pulled the tiny girl into a hug, surprised she allowed him to do so. Much like the way he'd comfort his brother, he cooed her with "shhs" and calming reassurances, rubbing a hand up and down her arm, always a trick that soothed his little brother almost immediately. It surprised him that he could produce the same effect. "It's not your fault."

"Yes it is," Marlee replied. "If I was stronger. If I was faster…I could have done something."

"You don't know that. You didn't know what was happening. For all you know, you could be dead too. Like you said, it happened so fast."

"But he's gone. He's gone. My brother's dead," she cried some more.

Dean's gut clenched as a small vision shown, showing something like Marlee's experience happening to his sibling. If anything like that had happened to Sam, he'd lose it too. "I'm sorry Marlee. I am. I have a brother too and I can't imagine what it would be like to lose him."

"It's Hell," her shoulders shook, as more tears fell, and she lowered her head into the crook of his shoulder. "Now I understand what Reverend Swarnson was saying. Nothing is worse than this. It's like a part of me died, and I was there to see it happen. O-oh G-god."

Dean held onto the distraught child tightly. "Shhh. Now Marlee, can you remember what did it…or, erm…can you try to think about what could have done this?"

"It was the devil," the girl gasped. "Just like in the stories. It was something under the bed. Eyes. Orange eyes…like fire. And it growled like a mutt. Like a vicious mutt. _And we don't have a mutt._ I hate dogs! Ever since one bit me in the face when I was a kid."

"Okay, okay. Say I believe you, how do you think it got in? How could it get under your brother's bed?"

"You're asking me?!"

"Just try to think," Dean insisted. "Is there a vent under your brother's bed?"

"No."

"There isn't? Okay, is there, um…is there a small opening, someway for a dog to get in?" Dean asked, determined to gain a clue as to how the bastard could have gotten in the room.

"No! Brian only had one window inside his room, and he liked living in a sauna, so the window was always closed and locked. It wasn't even opened. There was nothing. Just darkness and shadows."

"Okay, enough questions," he ended the interrogation, pulling the child tighter into his embrace, as he pondered briefly all that he had heard. _Alright, so dad was right. Definitely not a ghoul. But if the window was locked still, no vent system, how the hell did that thing get under the bed. Shadow, maybe?_

Dean continued to hold onto the child as he felt she needed someone; evident by the way she was hanging onto a complete stranger. And he refused to loosen his grip elated that he could provide some comfort…until he looked up and saw something real peculiar that eagerly changed his mind about staying and wanting to console.

"Okay Marlee, look at me," he waited until the child peeked up with her bloodshot glossy eyes. "I want you to do something for me, okay? First off, I want you to not blame yourself. None of this is your fault. What would your brother think if he saw you like this?"

Marlee said nothing, just continued to stare.

"Now I want you to go to your parents. They need you right now."

"But they'll blame it on me!"

Dean shook his head. "No they won't. I guarantee that. But right now, they're needing you the most."

"Why?"

"Because during a time like this, family needs one another. Besides they know you'll be safe with them. You'll be doing them and yourself a favor if you stick with em' through this. Family is stronger together. Remember that. Okay?"

Marlee sat up and wiped away her tears. "You sure?"

"Most positive," Dean plastered a huge grin.

The little girl still looked a bit unsure. She glanced all around a few times before finding the stamina of standing up.

"Go on. Trust me," Dean persisted.

At receiving the heartwarming gaze, Marlee graciously gave a small 'thanks' and slowly staggered back towards the house. Dean didn't move until he saw the thirteen-year-old cross the street, into the over-run yard, and back into the loving arms of her parents. Once he felt she was safe again, Dean hopped up.

He walked fast in the direction he saw Anya. Something about her this time struck him as odd, and it only upped his curiosity. She stood in front of a neighboring house a couple houses down from the Lieverman's with her hands raised as if she were giving tribute to the Almighty. Finishing what appeared like a little prayer, the fantasy-obsessed girl dressed all in black and a black overcoat, moved on to the next house, again raising her hands, moving her mouth, and repeating the supposed prayer.

Dean had never seen anything like it…or rather hadn't seen that side of her. It was weird to say in the least. "Anya!" he called.

She hadn't responded or even acknowledged his call. Her eyes remained closed, her hands still up. She seemed pretty focused and determined.

He called her name again and then began to jog over. Passing across a tree, he looked on and she was gone. He grounded to a halt, rapidly scanning the area around. His petite raven-haired poker queen was nowhere in sight. Calling out several more times did nothing. She was gone.

Frustrated, Dean was about to turn and leave when something caught his eye. Edging closer to the house Anya was last seen in front of, he saw the faint edges of a sigil. The mark was barely noticeable, but he was seeing it. Drawing closer, following the pattern, there was no mistaking it: it was the sign of a pentagram.

Now way back in elementary training at John Winchester's Academy of Hunting, a pentagram stood for the Wiccan symbol for protection. Dean hadn't a clue if Anya was the one who had put it there, or if it was there since the beginning. Not much was known about his poker queen's history. But seeing the mark only gave him an idea about where to wander off to next.

Eager to follow up on his new lead, he just about raced back to his father, who stood impatiently by a small shrub in the Lieverman's yard. Willis was nowhere to be seen, so that gave Dean more room to talk. There was something he had to ask first.

"Hey dad," he halted in front of the stout man.

"That took awhile, didn't it?" his father asked rather rudely.

"Yeah it did," Dean rebounded, unperturbed. "Hey, gotta ask you something. We wouldn't be dealing with a _shadowman_ by any chance, would we?"

John's eye glazed over, and his lip shifted in a grudging manner. "Dean you need to get out of the comics."

"No," Dean cut in, "I'm not talking about the guy in the comics. I'm talking about a real shadowman. Someone or something that can move through shadows?"

"It's possible," John shrugged. "Why?"

"Marlee mentioned something that got me thinking—"

"So she did talk to you," John interrupted, surprised. "Why? Why would she tell you anything?

"Maybe because she needed somebody to confide in. Someone that's not an adult," Dean explained with ease. "You have to understand Dad, sometimes you can't push or beat someone into telling you the truth all the time. You just have to be patient and they'll come to you. Eventually it'll catch up with them and they can't handle the burden of the truth anymore."

"Oh. Dually noted," John nodded, not at all interested in his son's speech. "You ready to go?"

"Actually, that's another thing I need to talk to you about. I gotta go. I just thought of an idea."

"What?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I need to check up on a friend. I think that maybe she might know something. But I have to do it alone, cuz last time I saw her, she seemed a bit skittish. Bringing someone else along would probably have her running in all directions," he informed with one of his childish smirks.

"Fine," John rolled his eyes. "Do you need to take the car?"

"Nah, I got it covered," Dean smirked with mischievous delight. Obviously committing grand theft auto wasn't such a spectacular idea at the time, given the surroundings full of cops, but he'd been itching to do it for a while. "What'll you be doing?"

"Probably head back to Calvin's once we're wrapped up here. The sun's high up in the sky now. Now's a good time as any to check out that house he's got in his woods."

"I thought you were going to wait until Sam was done."

"Nope. Not for the house. That man won't cooperate even if I were to get a warrant. But if I do come across anything, then I'm going to need to interrogate him. That's what Sam is there to ensure."

"Ah I see."

"And if your brother is slacking off in any way, so help me—"

"So Dean here isn't your only kid, now huh?"

Groaning in annoyance for the thirtieth time that day, the two Winchesters turned around to see Willis, gracing their presence with a smug of all smugness smiles.

"You have quite a family business going here, don' cha?" the man said, his icy blue eyes gleaming with idiotism.

Dean was glad to not have said something to that comment. His father's jaw was clenched so tight, it could've been mistaken as lockjaw.

Willis continued. "I hear you want to check some other place out. Well no can do for the moment. County wants us both at the morgue to follow up on our report."

"You can't do that?" John spat.

"Oh I told them I could. But they said both of us. Meaning we _both_ have to go. No way out of it partner."

"I'm not your partner."

The man's smile never wavered. He leaned in, "Well just between you and me, according to the county, we are. So let's do this thing, Buddy."

John huffed, the turbulent storm inside once again beginning to stir. "Whatever. Get out of here Dean. I'll catch you up later," he ordered abruptly.

The twenty-year-old didn't hesitate. He left like he had a set of fiery-hot coals attached to his heels. Walking away, he distinctly overheard Willis say to John that whatever he's up to, he's tagging along. _Oh boy, Dad's _really_ bound to be on a short fuse now._

* * *

Despite being around ten in the morning, another crack of a beer can being opened sounded. Squeaky movement from a wobbly chair from inside the livingroom chorused loudly, vibrating through the wooden floors. Snickers, then shouts, then ear-biting cackles erupted at every "oomph" and beatdown and bust that sounded on the TV. Sam sometimes had to clench his teeth as the stinging effect of every one of the pot-bellied man's "Get em'. Take em' down. Heh. Heh. Ew stupid bastards" trilled through his head.

The man had yet to get up from his lounge chair. Every so often Sam was ordered to bring the evil King Midas another beer, to which the man would down in a second and throw the empty can beside his gold throne. Using only a plastic _Wal-Mart_ bag for a trashbag, he would come back to pick up the garbage, losing count of the times he had to roll his eyes to stave off against the negative effect of the man's belittling glares and statements.

Once the last can was retrieved, after making a quick assessment of the now cleaned livingspace, Sam dragged on back to the offending kitchen. He shook his head, silently cursing his father for putting him through this torture. Mr. Calvin wasn't at all appealing, nor was he nice. He was a slob, a worthless nuisance who enjoyed putting people through misery. Now Sam understood full well what Clark the clerk meant about Leann's dad. He was a complete wretch.

He paused, closing his eyes when he felt a sneeze coming. It came and went just as quick; only he had to close his eyes again feeling another spell. A strong guttural purring sounded, and then he felt something soft against his shin. He looked down and saw a small calico peering up at him with round amber eyes, running its slick body against his leg. And then it became clear as to why he was sneezing.

"Go, shoo," he softly kicked it away, succumbing to another sneeze. He really didn't like cats.

Taking a gander around the rest of the kitchen, at the rusty fridge with several county notices stuck to it (mainly from the social work department), at the grimy floor, the cluttered countertops, and all the dishes stacked haphazardly into the grungy sink, Sam had to swallow down the lump in his throat, believing that this were a nightmare. Either that or he was definitely in the proverbial House of Horrors.

He glanced down at the small bag in his hands. Searching all throughout the kitchen there wasn't a trace of hefty garbage bags…except a pantry full of Wal-Mart bags. It wasn't the best choice. But if there ever were a choice involved, he'd back a truck up to the window and use a shovel and get everything out. Hell, he'd probably feel safer putting on a HAZ-MAT suit to clean this house.

Most of the cluttered mess, luckily, was just used paper cups and plates. So far he filled three of the small bags, and he still had yet to put a dent in the disorder. He was afraid to touch anything, resorting to picking up the waste with the tips of his fingers. He tried to move fast. Every fiber in his body wanted to get this over with quick, but there was no way in God's creation that was going to happen with the way he was feeling.

Often the smell of the overused cat litter would overwhelm him and he'd gag. Several times he had to rush to the sink and try to throw up, only nothing would produce and that left him in dry heaves—which hurt worse. Equally glimpsing a cat using the litterbox would have him gagging some more. He wondered how Leann could keep so many inside? But knowing her love for animals, that was a given. It struck him hard wondering how anyone could live in this type of squalor. He had lived in some shitty areas, some a mangy mutt would forego, but this place definitely took first place in the Shittiest Homes of the Earth Contest. It was a wonder why Calvin dealt _only_ with the social workers. Sam was curious why the CDC hadn't been called.

Staring at the biohazard mess, his limbs hung limply by his sides, barely finding the motivation to resume his work. Just standing there, he was beginning to feel really hot and clammy. A bout of vertigo hit him and he grabbed a hold of the fridge to stabilize himself. The cool metal felt wonderful beneath his palm and involuntarily he knelt his head down to its surface, closing his eyes, and drifting off to a sunny paradise where he was cough and sniffle-free.

"Hey! Hey yah!" Evil King Midas shouted.

Sam immediately jerked out of his daydream. He grimaced when Calvin called out another order.

"The upstairs needs it bad. Leann's in a real bad way. I want both rooms done, picked up, vacuumed, and the sheets washed. Get to it NOW! And stay out of Leann's room!"

Sam perked up, confused. Very strongly had he wanted to go check on his friend during this visit; possibly the only reason why he was still rooted here. Leann wasn't sick the night before and the way her father described it, it sounded bad. The few times he tried to sneak up the stairs, the creaks and moans of the narrow stairwell would give away his presence and he would have a very pissed off pig-man on his hands. His head was still ringing from the man's callous shouts the last time he got caught. And now he was issuing out the "go-ahead"? What was up with that?

Either way Sam didn't complain. At least now, he had the chance to get up and go see his friend, and have an excuse of leaving the gag-inducing kitchen. Taking the half-full trashbag with him, he slowly made his way up the stairs, dragging his feet and coughing several times along the way. A pang of hurt struck. No matter how creaky the stairs were, how loud his coughs rang, how much he tried to turn a deaf ear, he could still overhear Calvin's comment of "worthless piece of shit." He couldn't wait for the end of the day.

The stairwell was short. It took only a few seconds to get to the top, where he was met with a long dark hallway. Three closed doors took residence, one at the far end of the hallway, another directly in the middle, and another right next to the base of the stairs with a big sign in curly pink letters spelled "Leann". He took a hesitant breath, about to knock. Then he heard something that made his gut squirm.

It was the unmistakable sound of retching.

Hearing Leann retch once, it made him cringe. Hearing her retch not twice, but three more times, it had him tense with concern. Immediately he entered the room to help.

The stench of sickness blasted ten-fold, nearly throwing him backwards. He tried as much as possible to not retch himself from the smell. Slightly holding his breath, he looked on first noticing a tin puke bucket beside a small twin-sized bed. Leann lay on her side under a mound of blankets, red-faced, sweaty, and drained. A thick bandage, tinged in red, was wrapped around her right wrist. She used it to wipe the muck from her mouth.

Still concerned, Sam went in and sat on the bed beside her. She gazed up at him with dazed eyes, barely recognizing him. "Hey girl."

Finally there was a glint of recognition…well, more of surprise. "Sam?" she asked in a raspy stinky voice.

"Yeah its me."

"Wha…h-how ewer here?" she asked in barely a whisper. Sam was willing to answer when suddenly her face blew up without warning, and she rolled over puking again, adding to the left over contents in the bucket.

"Hang on, give me a sec," Sam said, desperately fighting to not puke himself. He left out of the room in search of a washroom. Given his time downstairs, he saw no such room, so then he could only deduce that one was on the upstairs. The first door he came to on the right indeed proved his theory true.

Walking in, taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes afraid to see the big reveal, but relaxed when surprisingly it was sparkling clean. He took a big breather, grabbed a periwinkle cloth from a towel rod next to a standard sink, doused it in water, and headed back to Leann's room. Quickly he began to sponge the sweat off the poor girl's head. She seemed to appreciate it, by rewarding him with a little smirk.

Leann widened her gaze at him, starstruck. "Ewer here? H-how? I don't see no buckshot in ewe. So Daddy must've let ewe in," she croaked.

Sam continued to towel off the beads of sweat. "Yeah," he coughed. "I'm here to help for the day."

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

Sam laughed, but not at comical her question was, but how he had wished she was dreaming too. "Nope."

"Oh Sam-o. Oh…oh god," she puked again.

"How'd you get sick so quick?" Sam queried. It had to have been a bad hotdog or something. "You were fine last night."

Leann groaned. "Ewe don't want to know. Last night, it…it…oh God last night! Sam, I'm so sorry. I'm—" she let out a mighty belch, which Sam felt himself involuntarily backing away from. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about it. I'm sure you had your reasons," Sam reassured, slightly waving a hand at the new horrible smell.

She fell back onto her pillow cringing. "Stupid game. We shouldn't have won last night."

"Why?" Sam asked, even if he knew the answer.

"For reasons I'm too…too…_ugh_…to go into."

"It's okay, you don't have to explain," he patted the towel around her chubby cheeks, getting the rest of the perspiration. Normally he would have found toweling off his friend to be awkward, but seeing how the girl could barely keep herself upright, he felt it was the least he could do. At the very least, it got him away from her father.

Leann felt differently however. "No Sam, don't…don't worry about it. I don't want you to see this."

"It's alright. It's no problem. I'm here to help. Besides my dad and your dad came to an underst—" he turned away as a bout of severe coughs erupted. His eyes watered and his throat stung. He turned back to Leann once the brunt of it was over, but it left his throat feeling like sandpaper. "Stand…standing." He finished holding his head, as a wave of heat befell him. Instantly he prayed a fever wasn't brewing.

Leann coughed too. "Ewe shouldn't be here Sam. Not here. Ewer sick too. My house is not a good place for sick people."

_No argument there_, Sam thought. "Don't worry about it. I'll be okay. Besides I'm helping you out today remember? What are friends for?"

His friend gave him a feeble smile. Something about it struck an instinctual nerve. But he let it go like most of his instincts that come and go. He glimpsed down and saw the gauze bandage around her wrist. "What happened to your arm?" He made to grab it, but Leann jerked it away as though she touched a hot iron.

"I-it's n-nothing. Just some stupid cat, that's all."

"Oh okay."

"Hey Sam, I don't mean to ask…b-but could ewe go get my backpack?" she sounded tired, on the verge of sleep.

"Your backpack?"

"Yeah, I left it downstairs by the bookshelf. I need it. My essay is in it."

Sam jerked in confusion at that. "I thought that was due Friday."

"It was, but I forgot to turn it in. I only realized after I saw ewe in the store that I forgot about it. I called Mr. Shue and he said I could turn it in on Monday. Which is good, cuz I want to make a few corrections."

Sam eyed the girl like she had indeed flown over the cuckoo's nest. The girl could barely lie awake and she wanted to do homework? He could only think to blame it on the girl's ADHD—that is if she had the disorder.

"Leann I wouldn't worry about that right now. Just concentrate on getting better first, and I'll do the same, huh?"

"I still need my bag though," she was tenacious.

Sam sighed a mix between exasperation and astonishment. "Okay I'll go get it," he said, even though the plan was to complete the upstairs first before he had to suffer the indecency of Mr. Calvin again. Seeing how his friend was drifting away to sleep right before his eyes, he was content to stick to plan. He shakily stood up.

"Thanks Sam," Leann whispered, "Ewer the bestest friend anyone could ask for…" her sentence deadened into a dull whisper. Sam turned around and saw that she finally had done it and drifted off to sleep.

Sam appreciated the comment, it forcing a smile to his lips. It always felt good to have a friend. He quietly left the room, returning the cloth back to the washroom. Turning to leave, he froze in his tracks when Mr. Calvin's beefy frame took up the doorway.

The pig-man sneered showing off more of his stained teeth. "Didn't ew hear meh calling?"

"No," Sam answered honestly. An eagle high in the sky would have heard this guy calling—therefore there was reason to conclude he hadn't been calling.

Calvin gazed at him suspiciously. He glanced at Leann's door then back to at the boy. "Did ew go into my daughter's room?"

"No," Sam lied, eying him bitterly, backing away at the horrible stench of alcohol.

"Good," Calvin snarled. "Ew stay out of there and leave her alone. I mean it." He gave Sam another once-over. "Ew look a bit pale there boy. Looks like ew might be sick. Ew've been hanging around my girl, haven't cha? Heh, probably gave her what she has now, eh?"

"No I haven't," Sam defended.

"Did I say ew could talk back?" Calvin said dangerously, "Ewer taking too long up here. Get downstairs before I smack that purty mouth of yours…and stay away from Leann, y'hear? I don't want cha nowhere near her room—crazy kid."

Sam rolled his eyes again walking away towards the stairwell, wondering when this nightmare was going to end. If he didn't know any better, he'd say the monster was Calvin. Hell, he'd prefer the monster to be Calvin, hoping that not a lot of people acted and behaved like the man. Mainly to justify that he, his father, and his brother weren't sacrificing their lives and sanity for people like this. It wasn't worth it.

Clumsily hitting the downstairs, Sam searched for Leann's bag, which he found—like she said—by the bookshelf on a wall down a short hallway beside the stairwell. Bending down to retrieve it, the bag's zipper split open and its contents spilt out. Sam cursed out loud, stomping his foot. Quickly and irritably he began to pile everything back inside.

Leann's essay sat on top of the junk that fell. He made sure to stick that back in last while he shoved the various amounts of books, notepads, gumwrappers, a few feminine products, and oddly enough, a ruler back into the bag. Reaching for a stack of papers, Sam's finger accidentally flipped over a small piece of paper. He looked closer and saw it was a picture. It had broken cracks etched all throughout and was crumbled at the edges like it had been looked at several times. Inside it, there were two people—a woman and a child—sitting on a cherry-red swingset.

Sam immediately recognized the child as a younger Leann—it wasn't hard given the wild mane boxed around the tiny head. She looked to be three years old in the photo clinging to the back of a dark-haired woman. The woman had several of Leann's features like her nose, cheeks, eyebrows, and smile. He turned the photo around and saw some of Leann's scribble "Mom".

Sam's eyebrows folded in confusion. There was something else to the woman as well…almost like he had seen her before.

"Wait a minute," Sam murmured to himself, taking the photo and heading back to his own bag left by the main door. Opening his pack, he pulled out a copy of the hunt's research. Starting with the top, he went through the pages until he came to the identification of a woman. And it was as he concluded; the picture ID was the same as the woman's in Leann's photo. It was Sylvia Rorshak, one of the first victims of this hunt. Sam turned the picture around again and saw another name written under "mom"… "Maggie Fisher Calvin."

Sam looked up, "Huh?"

Oh don't worry, most of the mystery will be touched on in the next chapter while things don't look so good for our youngest. If you think Calvin is bad now, wait for chapter eleven. John's gonna be feeling the guilt after that one. And I understand that I'm drawing out Sam's sickness way too long, but I swear I'm doing it for a reason. Things regarding that will pick up in the next one. Things also start to get real crappy for Sam. Hopefully you'll come to understand why later on.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: **

**But It's Just a Story **

Dean felt a little weird standing in front of Anya's cottage. It wasn't that he was not excited-he was beyond ecstatic to finally see where the mysterious female _Gambit_ lived-but overlooking the old, dried vines covering most of the rectangular log walls, a black cobblestone chimney, and chipped rotting lattice left him a little creeped out.

The silent surrounding woods aided into the eeriness with dead stand-alone trees broken and twisted like the trees in _Sleepy Hollow_ looming high above curving over the entranceway as though guardians with a spying eye. Detritus, foliage, and patches of lime green and golden mold lay at his feet, covering most of the ground, lining a path up to the rotten slanted doorway. The cottage itself seemed dark, and lifeless. Not a single light was on, nor was there any indication a soul lived there; it's sole presence giving him a slight chill.

It took a good portion of the afternoon to find out where an Anya Shaffer resided. Riding around in a Chevy _Silverado_, Dean spent most of his time at city hall, searching through the counties archives. And he was quite surprised and irritated to hardly find any records about the Shaffer's. In fact, the only way he managed to find an address was through the county secretary. Spelling out his usual charm, he was able to sweet talk the near decadent old woman into giving out a general direction. The secretary hadn't known much, only what she knew from the few times _a Mr. Shaffer_ came in to pay taxes.

Mostly Dean figured this was Anya's house, given that this was the only cottage he managed to find on the far Eastern part of town in the dreaded wooden territory—on the opposite side where Mr. Calvin lived. Though skeptical this was her current residence, his instincts sang a melody in tune that he was on the right path.

Understanding how awkward it would seem to be caught gazing at the house awestruck with a lax jaw, like an idiot, he strode on, his nerves wiry and in anticipation. A part of him wanted someone to be home, but a rather larger part of him prayed no one would come to the door. He was eager to do this investigation without a watchful eye on his back.

Ranging closer to the house, he noticed various sorts of white flowerpots and rows of plants outlining the wall. Some of the pots were broken, piles of dry dirt piling out of several cracks. Many of the plants looked to be dehydrated, crumpled heaps of waste, in desperate need of a good shower. Kneeling beside one of the more ragged pots, Dean scooped up a handful of the dead leaves and smelt them, instantly recognizing the plant as Anjelica Root.

Now a little more curious to his friend's identity, he went to the door with gusto. Knocking not once, but three times in a rapid session, he became overjoyed that possibly he found a big clue. Already he could see his Dad's impressed expression. He waited, giving time for whomever to answer the door.

He knocked again.

There was no answer.

"Hello," he called.

And still no one answered.

His heart skipped a couple of beats, the excitement running into over-drive that he might have to commit breaking and entering. If there ever were a time to commit a crime, he'd do it, the thrill of it always acting like a drug. He knocked once again just for the hell of it before hastily pulling out his lockpick.

Even though it struck him as rude for being ecstatic about breaking into the girl's house he had numerously been trying to date, he went on without another thought. _Always think about the hunt and the clues leading up to it. Everything else is frivolous._ It ceased to amaze him how much his father's quotes ran through his head on a daily basis. It, more or less, gave him the motivation to carry on. _One quick look around, that's all!_ _And maybe if there's time a certain drawer too! Oh come on! Shut it and focus. Get your mind out of the gutter._

The door creaked open, yielding to complete darkness. Flurries of dust fell into his hair and eyes, and he waved coughing, blinking away the small particles. Opening his eyes to the dark, immediately a tingle flared in his gut. He took out his flashlight and his gun when he caught a familiar scent in the air. Tasting it on his tongue, it was hard to not recollect the metallic smell of blood.

"Anya," he called, now hoping to get a response.

Again to no one's surprise, the air remained dead and silent.

Clicking on the flashlight, he flung the beam of light around catching glimpses of centuries-old cedar paneling. Moving on in a straight line, heading through a short hallway, he emerged into a small living quarters with a traditional square fireplace and cobblestone layout. To the left, there was a smaller room where he noticed were scattered cooking pots and pans and books. Anyone's guess would have been the kitchen. He looked to the right and saw a tiny staircase leading to a banister that sat above the room, overlooking it.

At first glance, it appeared to be an antiquated cottage, and it eerily reminded him of the one he saw in the movie _Hocus Pocus_, only neater. If he found a broom, a mop, and a vacuum cleaner out, and a funky leather-bound book with an eye, he'd make sure to call his Dad.

Everywhere around the house looked to be cleaned. Dusty, but otherwise kept. Decorative plant pots of all colors lined the walls. More and more piled up, many clumped together near the kitchen; each with a different type of plant Dean hesitantly believed to be popery and other assortments of flowers. Other than the blood he smelt, he was sure there was the tangy scent of Juniper and Jasmine floating around.

Easily approaching the fireplace, careful where he stepped, he faintly saw a dark stain. Kneeling beside the large spot, he pressed a hand to it, noting the stickiness. He smelt it, jerking when realizing where the blood smell was coming from. Judging from the darkness and how the remnants barely stuck to his hand, he speculated it had been there for a while. If it had belonged to someone, it was possible the monster had made another visit than the other three homes. If not, then there was reason to conclude there wasn't just a creature roaming around, but a murderer as well.

He stood up, coming head to head with the mantel of the fireplace. On it were several pictureframes. A few of them were modern day each with Anya standing in the middle of and elder woman and man. Dean figured they were Anya's parents as the woman to the left was a spitting image of his girl smiling in the middle.

The rest of the photos were ancient like Abraham Lincoln old. He did a quick scan finding them uninteresting, until one in particular caught his eye and he picked it up. Bound in a leather frame, the white and brown photograph consisted of a group of people. Men and women all in late Eighteen-hundred apparel stood in a huddle on a street under an olden day lamplight. One of the women in the picture looked strikingly like Anya, having several of her features. He examined the photo recognizing the street as Griffin Avenue, the main road stretching through the business end of town. A few buildings in the photograph still existed in the present such as _Morgan's barbershop_ and _Tatterson's Pub_. The date May 5th 1895 was etched out in curly black letters at the group's feet.

Satisfied with his find, Dean replaced the frame back on the mantel. Peering back down at the bloodstain, something else caught his attention. Footprints. Faint marks resembling footfalls led away from the stain. Curious he looked on to where the tracks led, calculating the distance between each imprint. Following along the path, the tingle in his gut tripled concluding that the marks were of someone fleeing, as though running in fright away from the scene. There wasn't another pair of tracks to be seen, so maybe it was the perpetrator. It was hard to tell.

One thing for sure, the tracks headed out the door. He returned back the way he came losing the tracks in the turf on the outside. Keeping the flashlight out, he toed the ground, scuffing the leaves and mold searching for any sort of nebulous clue. A ways in -disbelieving his luck- there was a couple of ruts made into the soft dirt. Noting the circular pattern, luck would have it he found where the perp led…and then he gulped. His hard-to-find and otherwise lucky clue led straight to the place that made his skin crawl: the woods.

Hesitant, Dean debated with his inner self about the implications of following up the lead. Alone, with only a Silver Magnum probably wasn't the best option. Odds were if he were to run into the _thing_, he'd draw the short straw quicker than you can say 'wam bam thank you mame'. Stupidity was never part of his forte. When it came to his curiosity however, he was like a hounddog hot on the trail of a deer. In short, curiosity always won over logic and he was the proverbial cat.

_Into the scary creepy woods we go._

* * *

Suckling on his bottom lip—a nasty habit he took on when irritated—John pulled the Impala off the road. Sending a glare at the rear-view mirror, he let out a heavy sigh when Willis's white pick-up pulled up behind him. He had hoped that he lost him through the backroads, but as it turned out he was unlucky. It was inconceivable how his luck turned out when the ratbag bastard decided to play shadow. Though gifted with a charisma that had each county and local official eating out of the palm of his hand, the man still came off as a large pebble in John's shoe. He couldn't wait for the end of the day to get away from charmingly crazy Willis.

The Impala didn't deserve the harsh slam to her door. But John wanted to show off his displeasure as he trudged his way to the back of his girl's trunk. Willis obviously hadn't caught on to the clue. The blonde smug man leapt out of his vehicle with a pompous smirk, curtailing the scene around him. John let out another aggravated sigh. _Here we go?_

"So my man, parking on the side of the road. I like your style, but weren't we expected to be at Mr. Calvin's?" Willis asked snobbishly.

"No." John answered curtly, opening the back of his trunk and pulling out his duffel bag full of the artillery he thought would suffice for the search ahead.

"Okay then, where's this house?"

John shrugged. "Somewhere in these woods."

"The woods?"

"Uh huh. Whatsa matter? You're afraid of a little mud?" John shot back, feeling a little triumphant in startling the man.

"No," Willis shrugged it off. "No. I do love a good hike."

Careless for how the man beside him was feeling, John carried on past him, shouldering the green duffle, heading down the dirt road. He wasn't sure where he and Dean had parked the last time they came upon the house, but he did remember a specific tree with a missing piece of bark in the shape of a triangle they passed while entering into the woods. If he could find that landmark, then the old house he saw the previous night should be a straight shot.

Willis kept up with his pace, constantly taking a swift glance behind. He brought no weapons of any kind, other than his wit and sarcasm. Apparently it seemed, he hadn't a clue of the danger they were about to stumble upon.

"So what we looking for Ace?" Willis broke the suffering silence a few minutes into their walk, "Bigfoot? A sasquatch? Hell, a government experiment? Cuz so far I gotta say I'm itching to talk to Mr. Dean Koontz anytime now. But none of that could be real. It could be some raging homeless man, maybe?"

John refused to answer. Willis sounded sarcastic, but the underlining hint was almost too obvious. But John could care less. He was too focused into searching for his landmark, than he was in speaking with riffraff.

"Boy you really don't talk much, do ya?" Willis replied ruefully. "Figures. Big tough guy like you? I bet you talk to hardly anyone. You know, you're a piece of work, and I've been trying to figure it out. But no, nothing's come my way. But I mean, you're mysterious, you look like you don't put up with any shit, it looks like you got a good kid. So I don't know. Where're you from? No, okay. That's fine. I'm from…"

And the man went on…and on…and on. It was a wonder if he had a switch that needed to be flipped. If a psychologist had anything to say, he or she would definitely categorize Willis as a narcissist. John couldn't conclude anything else; Willis was an uncontrollable Chatty Cathy.

With the comments amounting, John fought hard to suppress taking out his shotgun and start shooting. He passed by a quarter of a mile worth of trees, and his one and only marker had yet to make an appearance.

"…I'm just amazed at the turn of events. I mean, have you seen all the cops and what-not? Oh come on, you have to admit no county has that many po-po's. They're not messing around…"

John closed his eyes for a brief moment, hoping, praying that the stupid tree would loom into view. This was getting ridiculous. If this guy was a hunter, shouldn't he know to take this seriously…_meaning shut the eff up_. Any minute now, he was about lash out.

But Willis seemed to be unaware of John's tense posture and wild staggering expression. "But still I haven't a clue what's going on. None of the clues are making sense. What kind of sick demented asshole kills somebody under a bed? That's a new one in my book…I mean, if you only had seen the kid. There was nothing left of his girlfriend, but sheez! This guy knows how to play ball. Your kid better know what he's doing… "

Okay, now that struck a nerve.

John stopped abruptly turning a hard glare toward the petulant man. "Enough!" he barked. "Enough is enough. It's plain obvious. And quite frankly I can't take the subtle hints anymore. I know what you are."

Willis jerked, squaring his shoulders. The small smirk teetered on and off. "Oh yeah?" "Yeah," John went on, lowering his voice to a dangerous key. "You come off as strong and mysterious, cocky attitude, following up strange clues. That only concludes one thing."

"Like what?" Willis raised an eyebrow.

"There's only one person that would think to look inside a tiny vent for a suspect. And that would be a _hunter_."

Willis said nothing, his expression vacant. Not even a tremble of the lips or a muscle twitch. It was clear that John's accusation wasn't what he expected. "How long have you known?"

"Since Hymen's. The quick lies to cover up the scene were the giveaway."

"Hmm," the smug smile was back, "you're slick there Johnny boy, I'll give ya that."

"Why are you here?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yes I actually would."

Willis gazed suspiciously at the man before him, obviously debating whether he should spill the beans or not. However when John's brazen glare amplified, he decided to tip over the can. "Fine. If you must know, witches."

John bucked back in confusion. "Witches?"

"Yep. A whole coven."

"I haven't heard of any around here," John remarked.

"Of course not," Willis sighed, rolling his eyes. "The bitches can hide. Been tracking several for a whole year and followed a couple to this part of town. Nearly cleaned it out, but I'm not done yet. I think there's maybe one more. Not sure yet. Was about to close in on her when I got word about this charade. Found this much more interesting."

A little concerned about this newly acquired bulletin, John shook his head trying to get a grasp on the intel. "There haven't been any deaths occurring until this past week, nor have there been any other signs of hostility. Did they kill anyone? Were they even dangerous?"

Willis shrugged nonchalantly. "Doesn't matter, right? Eventually they will."

John huffed. "You're a dick."

"Likewise dude. Definitely explains your MO. But truthfully I'm not surprised. In fact, I'm kinda thankful. Cuz working with the real cops, knowing what we know, is kind of a buzzkill, if you get my drift."

"What do you want?" John asked rudely.

"Really? You really want to know?"

"Yeah. I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."

Willis smiled, giving off a big toothy grin. "Well, honestly, I need a partner. Cuz working alone…I gotta tell ya, it kinda sucks."

_A partner? Is this guy serious? Well that answer was easy_. "No." John said.

"No?" Willis answered, taken aback.

"No, I don't work with other hunters."

"_Woof_, Touchy! Why not?"

"I don't have to answer to the likes of you."

"Ouch," Willis chuckled, undeterred. "Well fine, that's cool. You say this now, but I'm pretty sure before this is over—just my humble opinion though—you're going to need one. Cuz this thing we're up against—if you haven't noticed—has us both in _way_ over our heads."

John shot him an overconfident smirk. "We'll see." He strode on.

A weird grin flourished over Willis's perky features, making him look like a cherry-cheeked cherub. Excitement was written all over his face, and that couldn't have meant anything good. He hopped after John.

"So you're a hunter too? That's cool. Okay, so even if you don't want to work as partners, we still need to work together in this thing. Two's the merrier, y'know?"

Rolling his eyes again, John kept quiet still in search for the damn tree.

"What about you? How'd you get involved? For me, it's the same old song really. A werewolf came in and killed my family a few years back. I followed up on the sucker and learned that there was a world, so vast, so full of new wonders, right beneath our noses. So naturally I teamed up with another hunter over in Oregon and _yada yada yada_, you get the gist. So again, what about you?"

"God, do you ever shut up?" John spat.

"Hmm, no," Willis piped. "So about you?"

"I don't talk about my problems to anyone, least of all hunters. So shut up!"

"Oh well aren't you a peach? Well apparently something had to happen to somebody, I'm guessing since you're so hard on your kids, that maybe it was your wife?"

It was so sudden; one would exaggerate to say he moved faster than the speed of light. Willis couldn't have seen it coming, but soon he found himself shoved up against the rough bark of a pine tree. The fierceness settling on John's face could've compared to that of a raging psychopath or a protective lion ready to pounce. Willis didn't know what to make of it.

"I said shut up," John hissed.

"Oh," Willis flinched. "Guess I kinda hit it on the nail there, didn't I?"

An elbow found its way into his throat. "Okay. Okay," he gasped. "You've proved your point."

John released him, stepping away riddled with angry twitches. The rolling and swishing emotions swimming inside instantly hit Category Four rapids. Just the very mention of his wife by another man, another hunter almost had him commit Murder One. Without another look, he carried on.

Trekking a little more up the road, the two men's attention was drawn to a midnight blue Honda Civic parked on the side with its emergency blinkers on. Curious John and Willis strode on up beside the vehicle where they saw a woman with heavy frizzy curls with a large cell phone. Willis knocked softly startling the woman.

"Sorry mame. Police," Willis informed taking out his badge. "Came to see if you were alright."

The woman opened her door, exiting out with great difficulty due to the tight lilac dress-suit she wore. She gazed at them with bright hazel eyes. She looked to be around her mid-thirties, but the few wrinkles etched over her pale pointy face suggested she was older.

"Why yes officer. I'm all right," she answered with a high-pitched rosy voice. "Just in a spot of trouble. Got a flat tire there, see?"

John glanced to where she pointed and saw the back rear tire flat and the car at a tilt.

"You think the county would sacrifice a little bit of the budget money to take care of its road, but no? Damn potholes," she complained taking out her cell again. "I tried to get a good signal, but its worthless out in these parts of the woods."

"I'm sorry to hear about that mame. We'll help you out to where you need to get. Officer Willis wouldn't mind giving you a lift," John said before turning a gleeful smirk towards his partner, despite the man's scornful look, "Where were you heading anyway?"

"To the Calvin residence on up the road. I'm Gloria Retvern. I'm a social worker for the Social and Human Resources Office of Greenton. I originally have an appointment with Mr. Calvin next week, only I felt the need to come today and tell him in person that I do not accept bribes."

"Excuse me," John asked.

"Yes. I received this in the mail," she pulled out a small sapphire perfume bottle out of her purse, "And I came to tell him that no bribe will cancel our arrangement. The courts ruled that his daughter has to be checked upon every few weeks. I cannot help that. Only I've run into a small rut. And…where are your vehicles officers? You said you could give me a lift?"

"Yes," Willis piped. "They're just down the road ma'am. We came out to investigate an abandoned house on Mr. Calvin's property actually."

"Really?" the social worker beamed with inquisitiveness. Though she seemed to be heading on in years, apparently the woman always took up the opportunity for an adventure. "Well certainly I wouldn't mind tagging along."

"Uh mame…" John began to disagree.

"It's actually a small part of my job description to examine all that the client in question owns, especially if it involves unchecked property. His little girl could be in danger." It was plain obvious the woman was speaking out of her ass; she was the proverbial curious cat.

John shook his head. "Mame no, Willis will escort you back to town. It's too dangerous—"

"What's so dangerous about an old house?" Gloria protested.

"Certainly mame we can escort you," Willis jumped in, smiling like a buffoon. "It'll be no problem at all."

"Thank you. I do love a good stroll through the woods," she answered taking her keys out and locking up her car.

John pulled Willis back by the arm, gazing at him suspiciously. "What are you doing?"

"What? She wants to come along. What's wrong with that?"

"Everything's wrong with that. You don't bring civilians into this. Who the hell are you?"

"Nobody John. If anything happens, we're there on hand aren't we?" Willis smirked slipping his arm out of John's grasp. "Come on Gloria," he took the woman's hand, "let's follow the yellow brick road."

John huffed, feeling completely powerless. "Unbelievable."

* * *

The hallways remained silent. The snores in the next room continued to persist. And Sam thought it to be safe to flip the next page of the dusty tome. Coughing at the dust particles, he read on interested in the material it provided. Mainly consisting of ghost stories and urban legends for most of the Eastern border of the United States, the book's content kept him entertained. For over an hour, he sat taking the time to do a little skim reading while the pig-bastard took his afternoon nap.

Completely thrilled about the clue he found regarding Leann's mom, Sam searched around the house for another one. To his dismay, there were none that stuck out like a neon sign. Heading back to the bookcase, he took one look at Leann's essay and immediately began reading. The essay topic was about family, or rather his or her family history. Typically he'd be mindful, respectful in reading someone else's work, avoid if need be, but he was rather nosy to find out more about his friend.

Leann's essay sat to the side, crumpled and its pages askew after he read it for the fifth time. Mainly it went on about her families' history of farmers and how her mother had left her and her father at an early age, the reason being why she constantly had to deal with social workers threatening to take her away from the only family she knew. It pained him in a way, mostly because he could relate. The rest of the essay hardly captivated his interest. But somehow the bells of his instincts kept ringing at one particular part:

_My mother always enjoyed hiking. I do too. Before she left, we were always taking trips through the woods and down to the stream. Daddy wasn't a big fan of fishing, or of hikes. He didn't like going into the woods. All the time we would take a lunch and an extra pair of shoes and she would tell me stories. Daddy also wasn't a big fan of storytime, but she was. She'd fill my head with tales about the town and its history and about some its scary stories. Ooohhh…_

_Anyway, my mom told me all about the five founders of this town. My great-great-uncle Gilmore were one of them. They came upon an abandoned town in 1935 with a few salons and stores which they supposed were left from the late eighteen hundreds. Bringing out the tools they put the town back together after what they said 'it looked like a tornado had come through'. How a tornado found its way up in Maine is beyond me. But weirder things I hear have happened._

_My parents don't know much about my family history. My dad said our great-great-uncle Gilmore was an alcoholic and a gambler, and that's where he blames his addiction…or old addiction. He couldn't tell me more, saying he didn't know. But one time when he was drunk he did mention something about a family curse. Curiosity being a weakness of mine, I couldn't help but give him another beer to get a little more out of him._

_Supposedly he said there was this legend about our uncle saying he was cursed by an evil witch, and that he still lives on as an angry spirit and how all his kin are cursed to die horrible deaths. At that point, I had to take away the beer. But he did tell me though that uncle Gilmore's lineage came to a halt after his grandson was killed in a factory accident._

_My mom, before she left, would say the old house in our back woods used to belong to his grandson. I tried to find it, but no such luck. My dad told me it didn't exist; so don't bother. And that's pretty much it for my family history._

_I like cats. I have a whole house full of them…_

After reading her essay after again, Sam inspected the bookshelf, pulling out several books comprising of old ghost stories and urban legends. Shockingly it confounded him to find that Leann and her father would have this selection of fables and folktales in her home.

Pouring over the countless story-logs, comparing them with the copious amounts of the case's research, he found no other lead. But they did keep his interest peaked, refreshing his over-taxed mind. It had been a while since he had a good read.

Skimming mostly over the material, the pages fanning by with grace, he caught a few glimpses of a Massachusetts' civil war ghost bedraggled by mud and rusty chains. You can only hear the stalking steps of Col. William Goosley at the witching hour on All Hallows Eve, the day he died by his comrades in the war. There was another story regarding a black cat. Any and all who had seen a one-eyed broken-tailed cat an hour before midnight, you were set to die. No accounts had been listed regarding its existence or validity, but nevertheless it was still interesting. Sam was so enthused; he hardly wanted to put the book down.

Finishing the one, he pulled another out: a small brightly colored book. To his surprise, it was a children's book, "_Under The Bed_". The title too had an almost too familiar sense to it. How it must've looked to be reading a children's book, no doubt the flying monkeys inside were hopping stricken with giggles. Still in a big mood to read, Sam carried on flipping open the red cover. Immediately the first line captured his attention.

"_Long nails, frizzy hair, moldy clothes, I am an outsider…_"

So far the kid's book had it right. He read on learning about a creature named Larry, a lonely depressed _juggernug_, a slimy monster who lived under a little girl's bed. Trapped in the dark, part of a family of _juggernugs_ who loved the dark and bothering the humans who lived above. Larry's main nemesis, his brother Jerry, enjoyed coming out at night, ripping holes in the eight-year-olds socks and clothes, leaving gum in her shoes, and hiding her plastic jewelry. For family gets together and feast on bugs, and for dessert, larvae.

Larry went on not participating in the family rituals of ruining the child's room, and longing to go out into the light. His curse was to never go out into the day and only play at night. But one night his brother Jerry came back with a stolen necklace that Larry knew belonged to the little girl. In anger, Larry felt righteous in fighting his brother, and returning the necklace. And so the entire book consisted of his adventures in trying to return the little girl's necklace, while fending off against other unknown monsters and elements like _Fenneldinger_ the _Toecheese Monster_. Eventually the children's book ended with Larry gifted by the Dark World's _Grand Shaman_ a day out in the sunlight where he made a good friend.

Sam's excitement brewed over his analysis, the brightness in his cheeks intensifying. He felt like a kid in an all-you-can-eat candy store. This monster. This _Larry_ had to be it. There was another name for a _juggernug _that Sam was all too familiar with as a child. And this…this had to be it. Perhaps if he could relay his theory to his father, then (and it's a big 'if') all will be forgiven. It would show that he was willing to be cooperative and somewhat capable of assisting hunts. And there was a chance that he could be allowed to go to that college fair. Because right now the odds of him allowed to the bathroom unsupervised were slimming…drastically.

Even so—the clues in the storybooks were all right down to the tee. Under the bed, closet, the shadow under the desk. This creature enjoys the dark. It leaves behind larval eggs and maggots. In the story, the children heard scratching. More than likely, the victims all heard scratching. To Sam, in his little world, it all made sense.

They were dealing with the boogeyman.

Oh, he could hear Dean's cackles of laughter already in his head.

And that presented another problem. How was he going to tell his family? How was he going to address the issue, mention his theory and say where he collected his research without his family giving a sneer and a rude retort telling him to grow up?

Sam thought about it…and thought…and thought.

Sadly, he came up with zero options. So he returned the book to its rightful place, picking up once again the large ghost book.

A dark shadow loomed. Sam looked up, feeling his spine tense with fear, the nervousness racking when he saw it was the globular form of Mr. Calvin. The sides of his face reflected off the light from behind, making Sam wonder if the man stuck his entire head into a chicken vat. He kept it quiet to himself, but the wrinkled forehead and scrunched up nose made the man appear like a deformed hog. Actually a hog's head looked more appealing.

The black beady eyes flashed. "What in the Sam Hell is this? _Reading_?" He swiped the large tome from Sam's hands, lifting the teenager up the scruff of his shirt. Pulling Sam roughly by his color, mumbling curses, he dragged the kid along the length of the kitchen's skuzzy floor. With great force, Sam was pushed out the kitchen screen door.

"Get out there and get ta pickin' the coop." Calvin slammed the moldy door in Sam's face.

Roiling in anger and frustration, the irritable teen muttered out a curse the creepy man's way and an even bigger curse at his father. Turning around seeing the grand chicken coop a few yards away, his shoulders sagged. The triangular fortress, rusty wire and crooked door looked menacing, like a gremlin with a cheeky grin waving a clawed hand to come closer.

Or perhaps he just wasn't into chickens.

The few pecking the ground he glared at, wishing he had laser vision and fried them all, extra crispy. What'll Calvin think of that?

On his way to the pen, one thing occurred to him. How was he to clean without a trashbag? Or actually how do you clean up a coop? John Winchester may have taught him a great many things, but that was not part of his training. He cringed to think of what lay ahead.

Entering inside the _Taj Mahal_ of chicken coops, he deadpanned—every part of him freezing up, unable to think or move. Other than the horrible stink of chicken feces, the place was much like the inside of the house: in near disaster. Observing the hay-strewn ground, there lay among it smashed eggshells galore, yellow and red yolk trailing out, bloody and crinkled feathers sprinkled all over the floor, along the walls, and cubbyholes. Holes and breaks were seen in the walls and its wire encasing; resembling like a block of Swiss cheese.

The layout of the coop was of two rooms with a square hole at the bottom of back wall leading into the next one. Looking through the small opening, the conditions were set like the room he stood in, only worse. And he heard more clucking, meaning there were several more chickens. _Great!_

Sighing disdainfully, Sam exited the coop in search of a good bag to use or perhaps a pitchfork, or maybe a shovel…that sounded better. Something heavy enough to bash his brains in. He didn't want to be here anymore. Cleaning the biohazard house of the state was one thing, but tidying up a place even worse was another. What is the point? It's a chicken coop, a hovel full of squalidness and plague, hello?

He forced himself to come back in, carrying an empty oat bag he happened to find lying around. Opening the bag, he began to pick at the eggshells, making a mental note to scrub his hands raw with bleach afterwards. Sam followed along the wall picking up the eggshells like wet slimy breadcrumbs.

Bending down again to pick up another one, he froze coming upon a bitten-off hen's head. It took him a full minute to process what he was seeing. Remaining frozen, he scanned the rest of the ground before him, and what he mistook for bloody yolky eggs turned out to be other heads, and feet, and half-eaten parts. His mouth fell agape. It looked like something had a feast. A dozen chickens or more it seemed. Next to his foot, there was another head with one big bloody eye staring weirdly at him. _What the Hell?_

"What the hell?"

Then suddenly wheezing was heard from inside the adjacent compartment. Sam looked up to see a rooster emerge from the shadows; more hideous than any other bird he'd seen. It looked prehistoric: beefier with a muscular breastplate, broad scabbed legs, with talon-like spurs. Its beak was twisted; it's gizzard black. Patches of feathers were missing among brown leathery skin. But what scared Sam the most were it's eyes, a blazing orange with a gleaming red pupil.

The deformed rooster let out a mighty screech raising its emaciated wings where Sam noticed there was a big ass bite mark. Before he had time to consider anything, the chicken charged at him. Instinctually Sam stepped backwards. The thing jumped a good three feet high, committing a feat no chicken he was aware could do. He fell backwards on the shit-infested flooring just as the rooster flew over his head. Sam spun around aiming to kick it away. But the mini-pterodactyl lunged forward swiping its talon-like spurs, creating small gashes on the back of his calf.

Sam cried out, scrambling backwards on his elbows. The rooster charged forward again, leaping on his chest snapping its twisted beak, slicing at his arms. Sam rolled punching at the bird's side, and squawked in pain. It felt like he just slammed his hand into a steel box. He rolled again, scrambling to his feet heading for the small door. The bird kept on his heels, moving fast for a waddler, biting at his ankles—luckily its bite ineffective due to the tough fabric of his jeans. At the door, Sam fell again rolling out, using his leg to slam it shut just as the beast flew. The psychotic chicken latched onto the doorframe flapping its wings erratically, chewing at the wire, and easily snapping the frail pieces in half. What the HELL?

The dark cloud cover moved and a beam of sunlight broke through. It lit up against the door, hitting the chicken square in the face. It let out a pained screech, leaping off the door, and skittering back into the shadows.

Sam exhaled out a long breath, resting his head on the ground. "What the fuck? Ow," he palmed the cuts the damn thing left on his right arm. "Holy shit," he was breathless. That had to be the weirdest close call he ever had. _Need to warn Kernel Sanders. There's something bad they're putting in the chicken feed. _

Done with the coop, careless if it was finished or not, he took off at a jog back to the house. Crossing past the moldy threshold, the quick jog spurred on another coughing fit, the one he feared would happen.

The coughs wracked through his frame unmercifully. He couldn't catch his breath. Black spot danced in front of his eyes, and he prayed the threatening blackness wouldn't take hold. With his eyes closed, hand over mouth; he bumped into the several counters, knocking a few items over. And still the coughs persevered. He couldn't stop them even as his face turned crimson.

Ricocheting off the various walls and counters, he accidentally slumped over the kitchen counter by the sink and swiped off the various jars and ceramic pots. Struggling, but yet determined to win over the horrendous coughs, he stilled, breathing in deep. Focused, in the deep breaths went in; slow they came out. The routine seemed to help and he coughed less.

Breathing in again and exhaling slowly, eventually his chest settled and he could breath normally again. Tears leaked down the sides, his regular tan color transcending. Huffing Sam looked down at the mess he just created. Broken glass and ceramic bits littered the small space of the floor on top of a large puddle. Grabbing a cloth from the counter, Sam went to work in cleaning the water up, crinkling his nose at the smell. Moving the shards out of the way, he learned the malodorous liquid seemed to be coming from a sapphire crystalline container. It was so rank, he had to sit back fearful of another attack.

The short rise suddenly gave him a small case of vertigo. And in that moment, a surge of weakness prevailed, stripping him of all senses and strength. He fell forward onto his hands, closing his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to fade.

"Oh God," he mumbled, as a rush of heat surpassed.

Loud thuds vibrated through the floor and soon echoed in the hallway. Shortly the rotund man was back, snickering. "Done already boy, I doubt that. Ew still haveta do…Ha. Ha! What are ew some kind of muslim or somethin'?" He heckled. "Ew…" he paused, his eyes widening in terror at seeing the remnants of the blue jug.

For what came next, Sam wasn't prepared.

To say the man freaked would have been an awful, _awful_ understatement.

"HOLY CHRIST! Not that! Not that!" Calvin screamed. He rushed in, picking Sam up by his stretched collar and shoving him into the edge of the counter, towering over him by a head, glaring at him as though he intended to murder. "Did ewe spill that? Huh?" he slung a meaty hand across Sam's face. "Did ewe?"

Sam was stunned, paralyzed. No way did the man just hit him?

Calvin's lip curled. "Ewe…ewe stupid…stupid, worthless brat. That was meh wretched wife's!" he threw a balled fist into the kid's stomach. Sam let out a pained huff, completely thrown for a loop. "Clean it up," the abusive man yelled.

Calvin raised his hand again, but Sam was ready for it. He blocked it with his forearm; using whatever energy he could muster to push the beefy guy away. Judging by the fiery glow in Calvin's eyes and breakneck twitching of his cheeks, he was about to turn into a fuming bull with smoldering horns. The next second Sam was faced with the bull charging. Two swift swats to the face and he was knocked to the floor.

"Tough guy, huh? Ewe want to fight, now do yah?" Calvin challenged, sending a mighty kick to his back. Sam cried out at the sudden explosion of pain. The man gave another kick his stomach, and then another. Too tired and too weak to retaliate, Sam endured the beatdown, praying his brother would come, praying somebody would come.

Huffing heavily, Calvin relented his treatment, backing away from the quivering boy. "Ew get it all up. Yah ain't leaving this kitchen until all of this is wiped down and cleaned. Get it up now!" he stomped away, cursing a storm. "SHIT!"

Pain. Scores of pain. It was all Sam could feel. Sharp shooting pains throbbed in his back and front. Raw pain in his chest and throat from his terrible sickness. And Pain for being alone. Pain for having to get beaten up and too enfeebled to protect himself. And mostly Pain for having to live this life.

Enshrouded in nothing but pain and misery, Sam curled up on the grimy floor and he cried.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: **

**Who Do I Have To Kill To Get Some Frenchfries Around Here?**

He was about to throw up. The scene that lay at his feet was not only horrifying, but also real disgusting. Piles of bones and dried out raw carcasses lay scattered all across the ground. Every few feet there was at least some dead bird, raccoon, deer, possum, and others that he couldn't quite make out. It was like some land version of the Red Tide had come through. Nothing left in its wake was left alive.

Dean pulled a hand up to his mouth. He could feel himself convulse with nausea, any minute now he was about to produce chunks. Every few feet there lay an animal either broken or torn, its face marbled in fright. Observing the rest, it appeared as though the animals all had run in one giant flock; only were too slow to escape their predator. Whatever munched on them, it was hungry. Based on everything else they had seen, Dean could only guess it belonged to the mystery villain.

It unnerved him to think the creature was so close to Anya's home. He hadn't traveled two hundred feet into the woods when he saw the first carcass. Advancing more into the area, he saw several more of the protection marks he and his Dad had found close by at the Calvin's. There seemed to be a symbol on every tree outlining the woods to Anya's house. He wasn't sure if they were any good, but still the fact of the matter remained…his girl was in trouble.

Dean was at a crossroads in trying to understand just what sinking mudhole he had gotten himself into. All these signs were pointing at that possibly Anya either had mixed in with something bad like witchcraft or she was a witch. Why else would she be potting Anjelica Root and Sandelwood? A large part of him refused to believe that possible solution. But he couldn't deny that he was bound and determined to find out.

One glance at the sky and his legs kicked into gear. He hadn't liked being in the woods alone in the day. But as the sun began to set, one thing came to his attention—this was one stupid idea. He moved fast to get past the barrier and back to his stolen car.

If ever he and Anya met again, there wouldn't be any other choice but to confront her about it. There was too much that was fishy. No doubt it'd put an end to their budding relationship, but when people's lives are at stake, as it was instilled in him since four: put your hormones to the side and get the job done.

Settling back into the driver's seat, one thing occurred to him, plowing into his gut like a horned ram. _Sam._ With the sun settling, it would take an hour before sundown. And there was no way he was having his little brother stay any more than he should. Guilt festered like an angry wound for leaving him behind. And now with Sam there supposedly cleaning God-only knows what the guilt tripled. So it only seemed proper to pick him up.

* * *

Sam was still scrubbing on his hands and knees at the grungy floor tiles by the time Dean arrived. Lifting an intrigued eyebrow, the corner of his mouth creased into a smug smirk as he watched his brother slave away. It sort of interested him that Sam had not acknowledged his return. The kid was working hard, moving back and forth, covering a good decent portion of the floor.

The routine was non-stop. _Circle-circle. Scrub-Scrub. Circle-circle. Scrub-Wipe_. The dirt and grime broke away, lathering in a black soapy concoction on the floor. It was disgusting. Impressed at the determined back-breaking work Sam was applying into the scrub brush, Dean took a gander around noting the cleanliness of the once gag-inducing scene. Giving a short cough, his brother spun around in alarm, raising the brush as if in defense.

Spreading his arms wide, Dean said chuckling a bit, "Whoa. Whoa. Easy there tiger. It's just me."

Sam didn't answer. He didn't even give a huff or a small sign of disapproval. He just turned back around and resumed his work. That set off the 'warning' alarms on Dean's radar. "Sam?" Slightly concerned, Dean knelt down slapping a hand on the sweaty back. "Ahoy there Cinderella. Anyone home?"

There was a slight pause in the _scrub-scrub_. Green eyes shot up but didn't turn his way, and he still remained quiet. The oddity in Sam's behavior had sparked a nasty wave of concern officially flipping the Big Brother Mode Switch. "Hey," Dean gave a gentle shake, "What's wrong?"

Sam still didn't answer. Dean took a closer look and saw a large red swollen blotch on the kid's left cheek. "Sam, what the hell happened to your face?"

"It's nothing," the kid finally mumbled, "Accidentally fell."

"You sure about that?" Dean pressed, now in a mood to start swinging.

The scrubbing continued which caused Dean to roll his eyes in exasperation. "Okay. Okay. Stop this now," he assertively swiped away the dirty brush causing Sam to sit up in a slouch. "You're starting to piss me off Sammy. So stop what you are doing. This can wait."

Pulling the kids' shoulders in his direction, he ducked down alerting his kid brother to at least look him in the eye. Sam turned his head in the opposition direction, his shoulders drooping under his touch. Dean's earlier concern grew larger at seeing the clammy facial, sweaty forehead, and exhausted expression.

"I'm serious Sammy. Knock it off. Now tell me what's got your head up your ass."

Sam rolled his eyes to the side. Shrugging, he answered in a tired drawl, "I'm just tired is all. Now could you please let me get back to work? The faster I get this done, the faster the guy can talk to Dad, and the faster we can get out of here. Okay?"

Dean huffed at the ridiculousness of that statement. "No Sam, it's not okay," he replied calmly. "I think you've done enough for today. Dad is fine without this guy's input. The way I see it he should pay you."

The older brother expected at least a small snicker, instead only received a pained grimace. Appearing bothered, Sam choked out, "N-no Dean. Calvin explicitly said he wouldn't help Dad with the case until his house was clean. Dad expects me to get this done. It has to be done," Sam now started to sound like he was becoming upset. "I've already screwed up once. I don't need to get on Dad's bad side again, okay?"

_Huh?_ That was a statement the older brother never thought he'd hear. It was slightly confusing. Were there mice in his ears that distorted that part of the conversation? Did his brother just admit compliancy? Usually Sam confuted that, always apt to recalcitrance.

"What do you care if you're on Dad's bad side? You're always on Dad's bad side!"

"Dean stop. Okay just…" his lip trembled, "I'm just _tired_, alright. I gotta get this done, cuz I don't want to fight with him no more."

Dean's jaw nearly dropped to the floor. That was a shocker! And it puzzled him. Sam was always instigating his and his Dad's arguments; he was the one always wanting to fight. Argument was like oxygen to the kid. Dean knew he would make one great lawyer some day...he was the apprentice of lying after all. But now he was expressing how much he didn't want to fight? And with their Dad no less?

It was official Sam had really come down with something.

Well Hell, if he was going to stay here if he did.

Intent on providing some reassurance with a sane, non-smart-alecky response, but coming up with nada, he settled with, "Okay. Well, in that case, at least let's get off this floor. Cuz seriously, a cockroach I think would complain to management."

Smirking at his brother's reply, Sam agreed with a nod of the head, climbing to his feet. In that moment, a bout of dizziness assaulted him and he listed to the side. He probably would have smashed his head in on the floor had Dean not caught him.

"Jeez there Sammy," Dean cried out concerned, bringing Ol' Jelly Legs back up. "What was that? You have a hot date with Beetlejuice's choice for tiling or something?"

Sam blinked several times. Next a series of mumbles floated adrift. "Sorry. Sorry...don't know what that was."

Noting the owlish blinking, Dean said, "Uh, how 'bout low blood sugar? When was the last time you ate?"

"Uh..." Sam's eyes roamed around in a circle. A persistent blank was all he could register. "Um," he shook his head, "I don't know. Can't remember. When we had those enchiladas, maybe? But it's okay. That was last night."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Sam, that was two days ago."

"Oh."

A fast-changing scowl worked its way over Dean's facial features. That was not what he wanted to hear. It was one thing to work the kid hard as a punishment in obtaining decent information; it was another starving him and working him hard to obtain possibly _useless_ information.

"Okay. That's it! We're out of here," he stated gripping the kid's arm and walking him out, despite Sam's protests. Sam tried to yank his arm out of the vice-like grasp, but Dean tightened his fist.

Grimacing in pain, Sam said, "No Dean. It's okay. I'm almost done. Please! This can jeopardize the case."

_Ding. Ding. Ding._ Dean's bullshit detector rang. "Okay. Stop right there," he whirled around, his eyes shining like piercing daggers. "For one, I don't believe that because you typically don't care about the cases. And two, I don't care what that bastard says. This is not worth starving yourself and getting sick over it. You said you weren't feeling good this morning, and now you look like shit. So you can shove your complaints and protests up your ass. We're leaving!"

Sam bowed his head either in disappointment or exhaustion, he wasn't sure. And truthfully, he didn't care. Sam's well-being was no laughing matter to him. "Now either you come with me willingly and eat something...or _I _can drag you kicking or screaming—your choice—and shove a burger down your throat. So, what's it going to be?"

The little brother was speechless. His brother can be real persuading, forcefully or not. Even if he had wanted to stay in the shit-hole, it wouldn't have made any difference. He just hoped his Dad was in a giddy and forgiving mood. But the chances of that being the case was like chance of snow in the Tropics. Disappointment was an ever-present wall he could not climb. He really wanted to go to that college fair. Hanging his head down, he nodded in agreement.

"Okay then," Dean jibed walking on.

They hadn't even crossed into the adjacent room when the familiar clanking steps were heard. A second later, Mr. Calvin's beefy frame and greasy face came into view. His black beady eyes sideswiped the older Winchester coming to rest on the youngest, using his best intimidation stare. His decaying breath came out in large wheezes, causing the boy's to take a step back. "Did I say ew can stop?"

Sam glared back longing to tell the man off. But it was Dean who stepped forward threateningly. "Piss off," he spat, pushing his brother ahead and leaving Beetlejuice's lair all to the creepy man himself.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set.

A hazy coat of semi-darkness settled over the gloom of the forest, bringing with it a dense silence. No birds chirruped. No critter moved. There wasn't even a soft breeze. John sensed it, recognizing it as he had done so many times before. Evil was nearby.

Just as expected, there were more trees with the protective sigils on them. In the woods for a little over half an hour, he inspected each and every one, searching for the sign he saw the previous night. Now in the daylight, the pattern was in plain sight. An entire line of trees was marked with the same sigil stretching far beyond his sight ability. Maybe an enclosure? The line looked vaguely similar to that of closing something in. It only peaked his excitement.

Following along the trail of the marks, John soon came to one tree where the symbol was scratched off, the initials **T.C** and **M.F** within an irregular shaped heart carved over it. He shook his head. If the magical fence contained any power, the scratches would certainly have canceled its effectiveness out. All thanks to some lustful teenagers.

He carried on through the tough brush and thorn thickets, perusing the vast majority of the forest, taking in the dead scenery. The rustling and squeaks from Mopey and Dopey sounded behind him. Willis constantly whispered little things into the social workers ear causing her to giggle like a boy-crazy fifteen-year-old. It was like they were a couple acting giddily on their second date. The racket made it difficult to concentrate. He still couldn't believe the man allowed the woman to come along on this expedition.

But he was going to put a stop to that. Gloria may be allowed to walk through the woods, but no way will he allow her to venture inside the house with them.

Soon the condemned structure John saw while searching for Dean slid into view past a dense thicket of pines. The house a dark, rotting rectangle with a slanted roof and poled veranda stood out like a black thumbtack on a white board. Its presence haunting and eerie, giving a hair-raising vibe to any and all passersby. However to John, the house only looked and felt like any other old haunted domicile he wandered upon. It had yet to chivy him into turning back.

Gloria let out an awed 'oooh' behind him, clutching onto Willis's elbow, while her psuedo-date gawked at the house mesmerized. Obviously the man hadn't been into a whole lot of ramshackled houses in his pre-op career.

Before John chose to enter through the wooden door, he stopped and gazed fiercely at the tourist. He had to make it plain and clear he was not some tour guide. "Okay Mrs. Retvern, this is where I draw the line. I want you to stay out here."

"What? But I've come all this way!" The woman opposed.

"I don't want you coming into this house," John said imperatively. "I wasn't kidding that this could be dangerous, and I'm not having your blood on my hands."

"But…"

"No! If you take so much of a step on this porch, I'll have you arrested. Am I understood?"

Watery eyes stared back at him, and a wretched scowl worked over the woman's tiny lips. She stomped her foot. "But this is important to me."

"I don't care," he stated rudely, heading towards the door.

Willis released his whimpering date and strolled up behind him, "Well that went well."

John sent him a threatening glare.

Together the two men wearily crept through the door, John pulling out his shotgun and Willis pulling out a small handgun from inside his pocket. The inside of the dilapidated old house was dark, musty, and stunk of dead. Clicking on a flashlight, both John and Willis kept their eyes peeled and their ears alert. Observing their surroundings, the room they stood in was empty. No furniture, no material belongings. There was only an antiquated Victorian style fireplace with a white marble mantel and sides. Volumes of dust lay at their feet, hewing to their soles and jeans.

Steadily moving forward, cautious of the many creaks sounding from their steps, they also saw through the light a staircase with a spindled railing. To the right of the grand room was a small hallway, leading down into another dark room. The yellow beam of light caught a glimmering shine, which John noticed belonged to a faucet. The faucet it appeared belonged to an old rusty sink overtop white wooden cabinets. The dark room, he surmised, was either a washroom or a kitchen; it was difficult to make out from the distance.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," Willis called childishly.

"Shhh," John silenced him angrily. "You trying to get us killed?"

Willis shrugged.

They advanced towards the stairs shining the light up the crooked steps, noting the several picture frames attached to the wall. John took the first step up.

* * *

It wasn't the creaks and whispers that woke it from its peaceful slumber.

_It was the smell. _

The aroma of flesh, of salty sweat, of the salivating heart muscle pumping cholesterol-filled blood, and of the sweet tangy juice it loved so much wafted through its nose. Bright fluorescent eyes opened. Wide nostrils flared taking in the savory scent. Creaks and moans of the floor from above caused it to sit up from its crouch.

Long spiny claws protruded fast from slimy finger pads.

A low guttural growl occurred and the shadow glided fast against the wall, disappearing through the floor.

* * *

The floor groaned behind them. Both John and Willis whirled around preparing to shoot with their weapons on an unsuspecting enemy.

"Whoa! Whoa!" Gloria called with her hands raised in surrender. "It's me. It's me."

"What the hell are you doing in here?" John yelled from the steps. "I told you to stay outside."

"I'm sorry, but I couldn't stay out there for very much longer. It was giving me the creeps!" the woman wailed.

"It wasn't even two minutes," John argued.

"Still…besides why the hell do you have weapons? What's going on?"

"What's going on right now is this is a serious investigation and you're obstructing justice. Now _get out of here_!" he bellowed, the walls vibrating from his rebounding echo.

"But I have to see if Mr. Lutzvitz is right. There could be real Spanish gold in here," she protested.

"What part of Don't Care did you not understand?" John snarled. "Get out now!"

Gloria glared at him like a spoiled five-year-old before giving a sharp mutter, "Fine."

She turned to leave when a clicking sounded to the left. John leaned over the banister aiming his gun and flashlight down the hallway, Willis mimicking his same movement. The same clicking sounded again only to the right. The three persons scoured every inch of the dark room finding nothing. Breathing heavily, feeling the pervading sense of fear tingling up and down her spine, Gloria decided to leave at that moment. She took a step back unaware of the billowy smoke at her lilac flats.

Gloria at first felt something soft and tickling at her feet. She looked down and stepped out of the interesting darkness, repulsed. Little did she know it would be the last rational thought to run through her head.

John heard the clicking again and his head whirled in a spiral trying to find the source. It grew louder and louder until finally he pinpointed it sounding from the social workers feet.

"Gloria, move—"

It was too late. The dark cloud rushed up her legs and John vaguely saw a clawed bluish hand grab the woman by her thigh, ripping into the tight-hemmed skirt. She screamed, and soon her body was yanked to the floor, sliding along it towards the far right corner. John and Willis let off a round of shots, careful to miss the flailing woman. John ran forward still shooting as something he couldn't quite see kept slashing and slicing into the social worker, sliding her to the opposite side of the room.

"It's moving through the shadows. It's moving through the shadows!" John cried out. He wasn't too far off when suddenly Gloria's bloody body was lifted up the wall, still screaming, and across the ceiling. "Shoot it! Shoot!"

"Help me! Help me!" the woman cried a blood-curdling scream. Bloods and parts suddenly started flying everywhere, spraying both men in the face. "Help me!"

John shot again, jumping to reach her, but it was too late. One second the woman was whole. The next she wasn't. With a gut-clenching 'pop', Gloria's body was ripped apart. Her pantyhosed legs fell to the ground with a splat, her torso falling in front of John. He gazed at the body with dread, his eyes widening in terror at seeing the woman still alive, shaking and jerking. Blood pumped profusely from her mouth along with a pained squeal. She then tried to crawl away feebly.

Jelly-legged John went in to help, bending over…until the shadow from the ceiling formed into a heavy corporeal thing, landing cat-like to the ground and slinging an arm across his face. The force of the impact knocked him flying into Willis and both tumbled to the ground, senseless. Next all they heard was the woman's last petrified scream as the rest of her body was dragged away.

John fought the nausea that invaded his throat. Exchanging a glance mixed with anger and terror towards Willis, who returned an equally horrified stare, John shakily lifted himself off the floor. Shaking away the tremors that bore in his hands, swallowing down the pooling saliva, he shined the flashlight at the ground—feeling the nausea triple at the spreading pool of blood and the trail leading from it. He didn't have a chance to make out the creature. It moved too fast and hit too hard for him to make an analysis.

"Come on," John gasped, "We gotta find this thing and put an end to it now."

Without another word and with dread, the two men pursued the trace of red. Along with fingers and an ear they saw along the way, the trail headed up the stairs. Swiftly reloading his shotgun, John climbed up the frail steps shaking his head the whole way. The woman's screams echoed in his head constantly, and he felt the crushing guilt weigh down when he couldn't help her. And now she's dead.

Finally reaching the top of the stairs, the trail led them down another long hallway each with a few doors on each side. John went on stepping alongside the blood. Willis remained behind him, checking the clip he had in his bullet chamber. Soon the tracks turned into a room, its door wide open.

Backing up to the wall, John shouldered his pack, and readied his weapon. He motioned using his marine gestures for Willis to take the other side and on his mark enter the room simultaneously. The once-cocky hunter didn't understand the cue. He shrugged staying in place.

Huffing in irritation, John counted to three before he leapt into yet another black room. Shining the light, he saw it was a bedroom. A rusty bedframe leaned against the back wall under a broken and chipped window, a dresser with several glass items scattered and a cracked mirror was to the far left wall, and a large heavy trunk sat in the far right corner with broken glass littering over the floor. But what caught his eye was the latched door hanging wide open in the middle of the floor. The blood trail led straight through the hole.

Swallowing down the apprehension, John signaled to Willis he was going in. The man nodded in confirmation that he was following. Both took a side over the square aperture. With a bated breath, John closed his eyes briefly before jumping through the hole. It was a short drop. Feeling something hard and hearing a loud crunch, John tensed, waiting. Seconds later Willis dropped in beside him. Peering at the ground, both gaped in marvel, in horror, and in disgust at the many bloody bones at their feet. They took a quick scan around the flooring and saw nothing but aged old bones and skulls. Animals. Humans. Most were cracked and dirty. Others just piles of shards. John found it rather impeccable timing to not like his job at the moment.

The clicking sounded again and both hunters tensed, ready for action. Hearing a grumbling, licking, and a tooth chiseling on flesh sound, he wove the light over to his left and there he saw a squatty man in drab torn clothing lunching on the arm of the social worker. John pulled the lever back on the gun.

The sound of the lever triggered the monster to look up; the sides of its greasy dirty face glinting in the light. It snarled then turned in a flash launched towards them. John's instinct immediately took hold and he dropped his flashlight, firing his weapon. Willis too let off a shower of bullets, the bright flares illuminating the fiend in a strobe effect. The monster snarled and thrashed, howled and cried, backing away from the onslaught of metal. John and Willis continued to fire, gritting their teeth through the ear-shattering booms from the guns.

The thing suddenly dropped to the ground, bloody, full of holes, and non-moving. Still the two men continued to shoot. In its head, chest, arms, legs, any and everywhere. With the chambers empty, the men still kept squeezing their triggers. Once it finally dawned on them how dark it was, and the monster was non-moving, they barely hesitated to move. Jumping up and pulling themselves back through the hole, and as fast as they could ran to the outside.

Panting for air, doubling over, John leaned against one of the porch's columns. Willis too huffed and puffed, his smug smile returning. He looked around noting that daylight had yet to surrender to the night. Dusk was among them and so was it time for an early night.

"So this was the beast's humble abode," he said rather snidely. "Well that takes care of that!"

An awful wave of rage crashed into John. Gritting his teeth, he fisted the man's collar and pushed him into the front wall. Glaring he spat, "You stupid, stupid son of a bitch!"

"Whoa man, get off!"

John pulled him off the wall and shoved him back into it harder. "You brought that woman along on purpose, didn't you? You knew she would attract it. Used her as bait, didn't you?"

Willis breathed. "How are you going to prove that? We didn't even know the thing was going to be here."

"You knew what we were getting into, and you—" John fumed stepping back, shaking his head, curling and uncurling his fists. "This is why we're not working together. You dragged that woman in and now her blood is on my hands as well. I should kill you right now just on principle."

"But you won't," Willis challenged. "Cuz you know our kind don't take murder too lightly. And I do have friends in high places."

"Do you now?" John continued to huff.

"Oh I do. But it doesn't matter, now right? It's done right? The monster's dead."

"No. We gotta bury it to be sure," John sighed. "And you do can that while I make a call to Calvin to find out why the hell would it be in his house."

Willis stepped back appalled. "Why is it my responsibility?" he whined.

"Because you were the one to allow that woman to come along therefore you are responsible for her death. So you can at least bury the damn thing," John snarled shoving into his grubby hands the flashlight.

"Fine," the cheeky bastard agreed, stomping back inside.

John took his cell out, surprised to find reception in his spot. He moved the cellular device and saw the reception bars decreased. Bringing it back to the one spot, he placed a call.

* * *

The small diner nearby their husky motel was packed...or as full as a small town's diner would fill up. Many of the locals—all in orange and green hunting vests, including the women—sat at the main counter chit-chatting and lighting Marlboros. Others, mainly blue-collars, took up most of the window seats. The whole place was buzzing with excitement and gossip, probably about the latest disappearance. At least there were a couple booths left.

The boys trudged in through the swing door, pausing to blink at the nuclear lighting. Once their corneas adjusted, stinging a bit, Dean carried on following the red and navy blue diamond tiles to a free booth in a corner.

Given the bright yellow insulation protruding out of open patches in the plastic seats and the overly wiped tabletops, the place had seen a lot of years: probably the Seventies due to Lava lamps decorating the back tables and a few Charlie's Angels' posters. Dean had made sure he picked the booth with the one of Jacquelyn Smith posing with a pistol.

_Hmmm_, Dean thought, _she can rough me up any day._

Sam slumped languorously into the booth. Taking a tired glance around the table finding it...well, empty, he tiresomely gazed at his brother, whom was staring promiscuously at the wall poster. He let out a tiny huff, shaking his head.

"What?" Dean defended, hearing the huff. "You have to admit she has great legs."

Sam nodded in agreement. "Yeah, you're right. But at least I'm not so public about my affection...and not being so weird about a poster."

Dean cocked an eyebrow in confusion. "Weird? How am I being weird?"

"Dude, you're getting a boner just by looking at it, and in public! I'd say that's weird," Sam argued, believing he had gained extra kudos points over his brother.

The perplexed look immediately morphed into his trademark smirk. Dean shook his head, astounded at being criticized of the typical awkward-teenage tendencies. It was obvious his kid brother was ignorant of what he knew the kid did on special occasions (*ahem* Jennifer Aniston).

"Saaammmy, Saammy, Sammy," he drawled with a childish smirk, "What you don't know?"

Sam scoffed, "Whatever, dude."

"Hey there," a high-pitched voice spoke. They turned and saw it belonged to a tall, blonde, skinny-as-a-toothpick waitress with the biggest bug eyes they have ever seen. She spoke again in the high-pitched voice, causing them to flinch. But she seemed sweet, so they let it slide and tuned in. "Welcome to Annabella's. I'm Tiffany, and I'll be your main server. For starters, what can I getcha to drink?"

"Uh," Sam began, pausing to think of a selection, but instantly realizing he hadn't read a menu thus far.

"We're already to order Tiffany, if that's okay?" Dean cut in ignoring Sam's look of 'huh?'

"Yeah, that's fine. But wouldn't you like a menu? To see what we have?" She asked with one of her tiny eyebrows quirked.

Dean shook his hand. "Nah, we're good. You have the standard burger and fries, right?"

"Yeah. The Burger Float."

"Cool," Dean shrugged energetically, "Then we'll have two orders of those and a couple of Pepsi's."

"Dean, we're really tight on money," Sam said in almost a whisper, "I can just have a salad. It's no big deal."

"Uh no, it is a big deal," Dean objected, careless if the waitress was watching with a wonder if she should come back at another time. "After what you've been through today. You need some good quality protein and fattening up. So either you like it or not, you're getting' a burger, capeish. End of story."

He said it with such earnestness Sam couldn't defy it. He was far too tired for his rebellious-argumentative side to lay down strike. And it wouldn't have surprised him in the least if his brother knew that and was taking advantage. Knowing him, he'd probably do the same thing. "Alright fine," he replied in defeat (which was so un-like him, it scared him a bit.)

Tiffany fingered her notepad, waiting patiently. She realized that the handsome one on the left was obviously older, considering the dominative tone he gave. Her heart pumped rapidly, somewhat alarmed, afraid if she said the wrong thing or stepped out of line, he'd explode at her. But when he turned and gave her a breath-taking smile, her knees buckling a bit, she listened up. Brain-mode kicked in and it dawned on her that the other was the younger and the guy was looking out for him. Hearing the other concede, she immediately wrote down the order.

"Alright boys. You're order should be coming out real quick. I'll be back in a jiffy with those drinks."

"Thank you Tiffany," Dean called, watching her leave. After she disappeared through the kitchen swing door, he turned back to Sam who was seething at him. If he had been an introverted sort of person, he'd bow his head, imploring desperately what he had done...but he wasn't, so he laughed. "Come on Sammy. You know I'm the king of eye-staring contests. You can have another try, but you know you will fail miserably."

The kid didn't blink. He just continued to glare, which was hilarious. He gave the patented Sammy Winchester huff one more time. "Will you please stop treating me like a child? I'm perfectly capable of ordering my own meals."

Dean smiled. "Sure you are. But not tonight. Because I know what you like, and can do without. So guess what, I'm gonna fatten you up like a Thanksgiving turkey, and you're gonna hush up and get on with it. And then afterwards you're gettin' some sleep," he told him sincerely, "Just looking out for ya dude. And I know a burger's a burger, but just for tonight it's...how would you put it? Salubrious? Yeah."

The little bugger across from him blinked in astonishment. "Congratulations Dude, you can be taught," Sam mocked, emitting a couple of harsh coughs, "B-but so...so... incorrect though."

"Oh shut up Bunny Hopper," Dean spat which Sam returned with, along with his patented glare, "Dude the last time you brought up Guppy, you had a hissy fit?"

"Yeah I kinda overreacted there a little bit," Dean admitted.

"A little bit? Besides I told you that was not me. The bunny was just on my bed. I didn't put it there or snuggle with it, or"—he hacked up a lung again—"...or wha-whatever."

Of course, would the older brother believe that? What do you think?

He gave Sam an indulgent look of _uh huh, whatever._ "Uh huh, sssuuurrre. Cuz I think you gettin' all defensive about it is starting to make me wonder," he teased scratching his chin with an amused expression.

Sam launched across the table and amiably tried to smack him upside the side of his head. Dean sniggered, smacking the hand away. Sam quickly grew tired and slumped back down, frowning over his near-victory.

A look of feigned shock plastered over Dean's face. "What? No more? Ha, figures," he teased again, but pursed his lips at his little brother, realizing just how exhausted the kid was. "It's okay. I shouldn't tease you about the bunny. But you have to admit it was funny. Besides the fact there's a bunny I'd like to hop," he replied taking another look at the poster.

Sam shook his head again, letting out a coughed, "Ew."

"Oh yeah, I get the 'ew'," Dean gawked at him peculiarly, "When there's a certain someone wearing ladies perfume."

Sam cocked an eyebrow, interested. "What are you talking about?"

Dean jerked in surprise. "You can't smell that? Jeez dude, it's like you bathed in it. I'm surprised all the pasture animals hadn't been calling. What'd you do, go into Leann's room and take a peek?"

"For your 4-1-1, no," Sam replied sourly. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I didn't put any on. And no, I didn't sneak into Leann's room, like the sneaky bastard I supposedly am and sift through her underwear drawer that you're obviously thinking."

"But you can't deny you didn't at once think about it," Dean pointed a finger.

Sam shook his head. "Nope. That would've been rude, considering she's really sick. I heard her nearly puking up her guts all afternoon. It was gross to listen to and the smell was just as bad. Didn't help that I wasn't feeling so great either."

"Then why do you reek of old-woman, then?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know. The things I've seen and cleaned in that house, I wouldn't be surprised if I smelt of a whole assortment of things. Besides there was actually a big bottle—more like a jug—of perfume that I accidentally spilt and cleaned up. That's the only thing I can think of," he explained, resisting against the memory of Mr. Calvin beating him senseless.

Dean gave a funny look. "Oh, okay. Just glad you're out of there. Seriously that house gave me the heebie jeebies."

"Gave you the heebie jeebies?" Sam gazed at him wondrously.

"Yeah I know and—"

A phone ring sounded. Dean jerked comically at the vibration in his jeans pocket. Fishing out the device, he groaned a little reading the caller ID. Figuring he needed to get it over and done with, he pressed the green button.

Before he could get a chance to say "Hey Dad", the earpiece was suddenly loud with John Winchester's voice. _"Dean, what the hell happened? What did he do? Now the guy won't talk!"_

Sam sat back with amazed interest, and guilt. His father's voice was so loud; it was a wonder if everyone in the whole vicinity had heard. He heard the first part loud and clear, but the rest came out too garbled to interpret. Dean replaced the phone to his other ear and turned his head away. Sam leaned in more just as Tiffany came back with both their meals and drinks. Giving her a quiet 'Thank You', he turned his attention back to his brother. He couldn't see Dean's face, just heard his side of the conversation.

"—Forget it dad it wasn't Sammy."

Sam slumped some more. Of course his dad blamed it on him...what else was new?

"It was me this time," he heard Dean state. "...As in I took Sam out of there. It wasn't worth it...No no...Would," he stopped, clearly because his Dad was on a tirade. "Dad...Dad. Stop," Dean shook his head in irritation, before blurting into the piece, "Shut up!"

A pause.

"Yeah, you heard me. The house was nearly finished but Sammy was exhausted. The guy was working him too hard and he hadn't eaten all day. You should have seen him."

Sam let his head fall to the table. _Great, now he's going to think I'm just weak as a kitten. So let's do everything for poor Sammy, _he thought bitterly.

Dean continued to argue with John. "Dad, he took a nosedive to the floor. He nearly passed out...No we're at a diner right now. No...but...Dad listen," Sam could tell Dean was getting desperate. And judging from the deeply furrowed eyebrows and strained facial muscles, he was becoming all the more upset.

"...But..." he sighed. "You know what Dad? Screw you!" And he hung up.

Sam's eyebrows were sky-high. Never before had his brother challenged or disobeyed their father...and Hells Bells if he ever were to curse at him. Whatever his father had relayed, it obviously bothered his brother to the point of direct confrontation. Knowing how John would have reacted to that one little phrase (...said harshly or not), the relationship between the two would be like a cement block suspended on a thin wire. And he hated to think that it might have been about him.

Dean stared at the phone for a good minute. Panting deeply, unable to believe what he had just done, he stared at the little bronze screen, waiting. He didn't have to wait long as a second later the screen lit up again, again with the label **Dad.** Not apt for a mind-blowing lecture only the Gods could match, Dean turned the phone off. It was for his and Sam's own good. He would have to deal with the consequences later...and boy, were there going to be consequences? He could hardly wait! Realizing the sixteen-year-old's expectant look, he turned away not wanting Sam to see he was upset.

Sam, however, did see it. It wasn't hard given the moistened eyes. So he allowed a few minutes of silence. That way Dean had some time to cool down, and wasn't prone to bite his head off at the least bit said. Chomping lazily at the over-salted pencil sticks the restaurant had the nerve to call fries, Sam sat pondering. And it only took him a short bit to realize: _About What?_ There wasn't anything to think about. He didn't want to think of his Dad. He most definitely didn't want to think about the house and the horrendous cleaning. And certainly, he hadn't wanted his heart broken any more over the College Fair. _Crud_, he thought. _So what?_

Then like a lightning bolt flash, it hit him. Something that could possibly get Dean back into a better mood. "Hey Dean," he called tentatively, hoping Dean, in his sourness, wouldn't ignore him. To his surprise, Dean had turned, but had not said anything. _That was a start._ "Hey, I got something that might make you feel better...y'know, about the case."

Dean's eyebrows creased. He remained quiet, but his face blurted that he was interested. So Sam went on, unbeknownst of what Dean's reaction might be to his earlier hypothesis, "I think..." he licked his lips, "I think I know what it is. I think…I think it might be…the Boogeyman."

There was complete and total silence. The other occupants in the diner raved about their own business, creating all sorts of noise—but right there between the brothers, there was not a peep. They just stared at each other for the longest time.

Dean deadpanned for as long as he could. A split-second later, his facial muscles twitched, escalating into full on humorous spasms. Eventually, the twenty-year-old couldn't contain it any longer and went into a basic stoner-on-a-high-laughing-his-ass-off-attack. Sam couldn't help but snigger too. At least his theory had changed the mood, even if he wasn't kidding. His snigger fit continued as Dean dropped his head onto the table, banging his fists.

"See, I told you it might make you feel better," Sam laughed, before going serious, "But the problem is, I really think it is." At that, Dean's laughs slowed, and he gazed at him through teary eyes. "I'm being serious Dude. I've been thinking about it for a while and I remember the lore about it as a kid. This thing likes darkness. It comes from under the bed, sooo I think there's a chance that...that the made-up-kid's-story can be true."

The convulsive fit hadn't ceased and Sam wondered if it ever would. Still laughing, Dean said, "Uh that's thoughtful Sammy. But..." he cracked out into a snort.

A looonnnngggg snort.

Regaining his composure soon after, Dean said, "Okay. Okay. Under the bed, got it. But...don't you think that's a little far out in left field? Okay, okay," he caught Sam's shunned expression, "We find out that some weird things are actually true, sure. But come on, the boogeyman? That's about as real as the freakin' tooth fairy scamming kiddies for their teeth."

"But it is a theory," Sam piped, trying to keep the giddy atmosphere going, and yet pressing the issue that he may be right.

Dean nodded. "But it is a theory, that's right," he laughed some more, sighing, "Oh my God, that was good." He checked his watch. "Okay Dude, let's eat and get out of here. We ain't leaving until you've had all of your vegetables," he pushed Sam's basket of fries toward him.

Sam groaned with disgust. Slowly picking up the pencil-sticks, he began to munch on them, staring intensely at the tabletop.

Dean caught the forlorn abysmal look and it only lit a fire under his curious sides' behind. Sam was an excellent researcher. Odds were the kid was right. He had been so many times before. "Okay. Say you're right about the B-man. What all do you have?"

A bright smile flourished across the little brother's features, and he told him all he knew.

* * *

After the harsh and yet surprising phonecall he placed to his kid, John stowed the phone back into his pocket, screaming out a curse. He had never felt so angry before. Right now, he wanted to beat the crap out of anything, something hard and durable, not even caring if it hurt or not. His kid had failed again, and now his other one he relied on so much had disrespected big time. The punishment he was going to lay on both of them had him itching to run to his car and deliver as much pain as possible.

Until Willis came running out of the door, out of breath.

"What? What's going on?"

"I-it's gone," the man gasped, coughing. "It's gone."

John's stomach flipped. "What the hell do you mean it's gone?"

"I mean, I went back into the hole and it wasn't there. No body. No hair. No nothing. I checked the other rooms, it's not there either!"

"Then where the hell did it go?"


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: **

**Don't Look Under The Bed**

_**Previously:**_

_The darkness beneath the bed grew darker. A tiny rustling sounded. Then suddenly a gangly bluish-green hand with long dirty ivory fingernails emerged from the dark. It reached upward revealing an arm attached to it. The arm had more of the sickly bluish color with jagged patches of scabs and hairy pimply spots decorating it. It slowly snaked under the scratchy covers; its icky nails catching on some of the loosened fibers. The hand slithered upward onto the hardened mattress fanning out…searching…until it met warm calloused flesh. _

_Quickly it latched its icy grotesque hand onto the angled appendage._

_Sam's eyes shot open._

_With incalculable speed and strength, the hand pulled on the foot, yanking the boy under the covers and onto the floor._

_Sam had no time to comprehend what was happening. One second something slimy and cold grabbed his foot and the next he was crashing onto the carpet. There was no time to scream. No time to act surprised. The next second, whatever it was holding onto his ankle, was pulling him under the bed. With a surprised yelp, he grabbed the footing of the bed just before his entire body was submerged. "DEAN!"_

_Dean had heard the loud thud and instantly leapt from his chair. "Sam!" Falling forward onto his knees, he grabbed a hold of Sam's arms, which were bent at 'L's. "Hang on Sammy!"_

"_Dean!" his brother screamed. He slid to the right. Dean lost his grip just as Sam slid to the left. "Dean help me!"_

_The fear of God was suddenly in the older brother as his little brother now flopped up and down like a fish, briefly letting go. Sam was pulled further beneath. Grabbing and latching onto the outstretched hand at the last second, Sam hadn't disappeared fully. _

_Growing crimson in the face and pulling with all his might, Dean managed to bring an arm out. Sam used his other hand to latch around the bed frame. _

"_Dean! Dean!" His name was constantly called. "Dean!"_

"_SAMMY!" Dean cried out, quickly taking hold of Sam's other hand. Putting both feet on the edge of the mattress, he pushed, stretching with everything he had like a rower on an Erg machine. Sam's face and torso slowly emerged into view. "Hang on!"_

_Sam's face was blood-red. Tears leaked down the sides, staining the shoulders of his grey tee-shirt, where Dean also noticed rips and darkened stains. "Dean," Sam screamed. Then his body jerked in his grip several times. Soon it became clear that Sam was kicking at his adversary. The sound of a tiger's growl chimed. Then Sam jerked again, his head bucking back. Next a strangled cry of bloody-murder issued from his mouth, just as spurts of blood shot out and doused both their faces. Once again his body was thrown from side to side. Dean's grip was loosened. _

"_NO! NO! Sammy!"_

"_DEAN!" Another scream. Then he screamed some more. That was all his brother seemed to be capable of. Then finally there was a "Don't let me go!"_

_The fiend yanked on Sam's body again, throwing them both into the floor board. Dean's head smashed into the bed's wooden frame, becoming smushed as the force increased. _

"_Don't let me go!" Sam cried again, tightening his fist around Dean's black AC/DC tee-shirt. Dean didn't care if he had ripped it. It wasn't like this was the time to reprimand his brother to be mindful of the Gods of Rock. Another tiger-like call reverberated along with the sickening sounds of crunching. "DEAN!"_

"_COME ON!" he curled an arm around his brother's bloodied torso. The strain was so immense. Tears of his own began to form…and they weren't from the strain of holding Sam up. He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on. "NO!"_

_**Present:**_

"Sammy, don't you let go!" Dean cried overtop the kid's screams, fisting the teen's shirt tighter. But it was pointless, his little brother was steadily being pulled further under the bed, inches slipping away fast. "Sammy! Sammy! Don't you dare! DON'T YOU DARE!"

The growling and snarling added to the mix of his brother's cries, and the blood rushing throughout his ears. It was all so overwhelming. Dean screamed long and loud. _Dammit!_

Then the most beautiful sound permeated through the screams and the growls and the yelling. He could recognize that warbling sound even in his sleep: the running sound of the Impala's engine. Two seconds later, another beautiful sound: the sound of the key being inserted into the lock.

Dean didn't wait for the door to be fully open. "DAD!"

The door flew open with such a great force, it created a hole through the behind wall. John ran in without another thought hearing the distress from his eldest. "Jesus!"

Taking in the scene of his youngest forcefully being pulled under the bed, his eldest desperately trying to pull him out, and the remarkable odor wading through the room, the father went into action. Catching the double-barreled shotgun on the TV dresser, he swiped it off and ducked it under the bed. Pulling the trigger was like a second nature to him and he did it without harming his child. A terrible pained screech echoed.

John didn't take the chance of the unknown creature rebounding. Immediately, he tugged on Sam's left arm, pulling the boy efficiently out. The manpower overcompensated the force required and they all three fell into a mangled heap. A trail of blood followed Sam's boxer-clad bottom, the boy unable to cease his cries of pain and misery. Dean took a couple of deep breaths before glancing down.

Sam's bare legs were a bloody mess. Lacerated tears marked up and down his shins and calves. Flabs of skin and chucks of meat hung hinged in quantities, rapidly pumping out blood, appearing as though they were gnawed on. _Chicken legs to go…extra lean and juicy!_

A hissing emanated followed by beams of orange eyes glowing in the darkened abyss. Sam clung onto his brother like a small child. John re-cocked the shotgun and pointed it at the eyes—which were now gone. Pained pules escaped past Sam's lips. His father shushed at him, needing the silence to concentrate as he stood up. Dean kept his arm wrapped around Sam's chest, rubbing the side of his right arm, coaxing him to be silent, as he too listened for the monster.

The smell grew worse. Putrid. Nauseating. Like heated sewage.

Then nothing. No noise. No glowing eyes. It was dreadfully quiet. But that didn't mean the thing had upped and left. John knew from experience that once a monster took a bite from its first meal, it will always be back.

John's eyes roamed from side to side. His ears alert. The gun held steady in his palm.

After a moment when nothing but Sam's heavy breathing could be heard, Dean peered up at his dad. "Dad?" his voice quivered.

"Shush!" John's tone was stern. Harsh enough to get through his son's head that being quiet meant living to see another day. Dean kept mute fully understanding the imminent need.

Suddenly the hissing sounded again, along with an escalating groan that resembled the ghost's MO calling card from _the_ _Grudge_. John glanced just in time to see a clawed hand swipe at the nightstand, knocking off and smashing the lamplight. The room's color instantly died down to black.

That God-like fear blossomed once again in Dean's chest. And it felt like he was about to shit his pants. "Oh shit! Shit!" The fear doubled as the creature's _Grudge_ scream intensified, sounding closer. The orange eyes lit up again, but they weren't beneath the bed this time…they were much taller and now only a few feet from where they lain.

Both Sam and Dean felt their father's rough fists close around their shirts and pull backwards. "Go! GO!" They heard him bark. "Get in the bathroom!" There was a familiar boom and an explosion of sparks, along with the sound of the final trigger mechanism the shotgun made signifying when it was empty. "Boys now!" John bellowed, dragging their outlines with him.

Sam writhed and squirmed, hardly able to move his legs. Dean had to do most of the dragging. They wormed faster when the eyes loomed closer to their location. Moving back still, the boys didn't stop until the coolness of the motel's bathroom tiles was felt.

"Move it!" John yelled, slapping the wall, searching for the light-switch. When his rough skin could feel no other than the smooth painted drywall, John let slip the gun, resorting to both hands.

Dean had finally managed to bring his brother fully in, dropping him by the toilet seat. The dim light in the room made it easy to distinguish as he felt around for the door. Finally the metallic ring of the knob and the hollowness of the wood had manifested. It was a second later he had shut it…

…and another second later when the fiend had barreled into the frame, bouncing him backwards into the sink. John came forward latching onto the now widely swinging door. Pushing it back, he heard the fiend squeal with pain as its arm had gotten caught.

"Dean! The light!" John called, ramming his shoulder into the wood, receiving another pained cry. "Now! Find it!"

Ridding his mind from the throbbing spot in his lower back from where he came into contact with the square edge of the sink, Dean launched forward near the commode, skimming his hands along the wall. Finally feeling the stick-like nodule scrape by his pinky, he flipped it on.

Instantly the creature shrieked and howled with unremitting pains as bright white light erupted forth. With John still hammering his body into the door, the creature could not pull its arm out. Wisps of smoke began to form on the creature's mottled skin, soon morphing into pussy boils. Dean ran up and slammed into the structure, sliding down and propping his feet up against the sink's wooden cabinet.

Satisfied with Dean's weight holding against the door, John bent down, retrieving the dropped shotgun. Immediately he used the butt-end and began to bludgeon and clout the arm. Darks driblets of black liquid spurted up with each hit, until eventually the creature was able to wrench its arm free, but not without leaving slabs of skin along the wall and a blackened mess on the floor. The door shut with a bang. John immediately locked it. And Dean took a breather.

John too took a breather. Dropping the gun, he stumbled back, placing a hand on the wall for support. The remaining flesh left from the creature withered and burned, curling into black tendrils. Stepping forward, he stomped on the ashy remains, twisting them into dust.

Sam dropped his head back on the porcelain tile. The pain flaring in his legs pulsated mercilessly. His arms and hands trembled incessantly as he tried to lie perfectly still. He clenched his fists in an attempt to impede the shakes, but it had proven to be of no use. Resorting to just doing nothing, he allowed reality to come crashing back onto him.

His mind was in a cluster-fuck. The cold. Dampness from the globs of sweat. The disturbing sensation of the trickles of blood trailing down his legs and pooling at his feet. All of these aiding into the tailspin of things. There was no fight left to stop it: the fortitude of fear increased dramatically and never in his life had he felt so helpless. Defenseless. Even with his proud father and quirky brother standing guard.

All the while he lay on the chilled floor, waiting on his family to overcome their reeling adrenaline and shock, he couldn't help but wonder: _Why him?_

* * *

The typical Winchester code, the very word the three live day-to-day by, was **to suck it up and deal with it**. No pain, no gain.

Sure, Sam lived by it—it wasn't like he had a choice. He carried on with his life with hardly any complaints regarding fear or…or…pain. It was the many necessities that got him through his Dad's occupation without ending up dead or safely secured in the nuthouse. Sure, whoever said that despicable phrase (probably a hunter) was probably right—live life without any regrets or fears. But at that very moment, Sam wanted nothing more than to jam his foot so far up their ass they could nibble on his toes for lunch.

In that very moment, he lay securely, propped against his brother's chest whilst his dad wrapped and cleaned his damaged legs. Hisses and groans were all that echoed in the tiny bathroom. Sam tried to not cry out. He tried not to squirm. But the burning was too much. He tried to conceal his tears, but who was he kidding? His legs resembled pulled pork! The tears leaked steadily down his cheeks, tapering at the base of his chin, dripping off into a large blob on his tee.

Dean held onto his chest tightly, carding a hand through his sweaty locks alleviating the current ordeal. Sam hadn't disapproved. Usually he would have thrown Dean off him, accusing him of treating him like a child. But not right now. Lord knows he needed some form of comfort after his father carefully had to push the chucks of meat, hanging by thin strips of skin, back into the gaping holes.

The beginning treatment was horrendous as Dean and John found out. The severe wounds needed to be cleaned. Not only was getting Sam into the tub a hassle, but the cold water nozzle conveniently was found to be broken. The result being scolding hot liquid was used to wash the profusely bleeding injuries leading to a very unhappy little brother.

Dean swore his ears were still ringing from the screams. It wasn't long after that they encountered the arduous task of pulling him out of the tub. Somehow the trauma Sam's legs sustained set off a state of atrophy. He hardly had the strength to move them, or his body for that matter.

Panting, holding back the sniffles, Sam bit down on his tongue as his dad nimbly went about cleaning and bandaging. There was a small med-kit his Dad kept under the sink. It had the usual supplies: tape, gauze, scissors, two packets of wipes, and a small packet of Tylenol. Sam devoured the two tablets immediately. Leaning his head back on Dean's shoulder, he gulped greedily at the metallic-scented air, fisting his brother's shirt tighter.

To John's dismay, the kit provided none of the essential materials needed to patch up these types of injuries. Realizing that improvisation was the key, he did what he could. There was no chance he was risking going back out to the Impala. Morning was their best bet…except Sam's care came first.

John finished cleaning around the lacerations with the two antibacterial wipes, wiping away the vestiges of blood-flow. He was about to move onto the bandage stage, first dousing the wounds in anti-septic.

And that's when another problem was presented…there was no peroxide.

He looked around, opening the cabinet, looking at the small tub, even behind the toilet. There had to be some sort of antibacterial solution somewhere?

Nope!

Soap?

Again nope!

There was nada. Zip. Hardly anything inside the small bathroom.

But he did find a bottle of whiskey hidden behind the looped pipe under the sink. He sent a critical glare towards his oldest. There was only one Winchester that would hide his liquor so no one else would share. Shaking his head, he brought it out. It was better than nothing. Gyrating off the cap, he prepared for the worst.

And he wasn't disappointed.

The sound of a glass clinking was the first sound Sam noticed. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a twirling cap. Shooting his head up, his eyes widened to the size of saucer plates, catching the sight of **JD**. "No! No!" he squirmed backwards. "NO! Not that! No!"

The amount of squirming and wiggling the kid demonstrated took the older brother by surprise. He gritted his teeth in trying to hold him down. "Sam stop!" Dean ordered. "It's…there's nothing else. We have to."

"No! Please! Please!" Sam continued to writhe out of his grip.

"Yes Sammy," Dean reinforced, wrapping a leg around the bottom of Sam's waist, keeping him suspended in one spot. "You know we have to disinfect it. Knock it off!"

"Dean, pin him down," John commanded, taking one of Sam's legs and applying his weight on top of it keeping it in place. Dean tightened both his arms around Sam's chest, twisting him over on his side, keeping his head turned away. Seeing his dad's jacket off to the side—thank God not the leather one—he took it up and forced a good portion of the thick polyester fabric into his brother's mouth.

John saw what his eldest had done and immediately went about pouring the golden liquid onto the wounds. Cries and catcalls of pain were all that was heard, muffled by the gag. Dean went about whispering reassurances all the while John went as quickly as he could. He had to apply more weight down on his boys' legs as they too succumbed to quivers. Glancing up, his stomach flipped when he saw Sam's arms shaking mad. He hurried in his process, before his boy went into complete shock. _Oh boy, wouldn't that have complicated things a bit?_ Then they really would have to risk leaving!

After thoroughly dousing the legs in alcohol, John went to work quickly. Soon the job was done and Sam had passed out. Taking the sopping gag out, Dean then wiped off the beads of sweat off his brother's forehead before wrapping the jacket around Sam's shivering shoulders, lifting the pale head onto his chest. Sending his father a hard look—a silent beseeching plea—asking what they were going to do next.

John understood the expression. He sent one of his own telling his eldest that they were going to stay in the bathroom—in the light—for the rest of the night. And that he would take watch.

And so he did. Placing his large boots against the door, resting his back against the cabinet, John set watch with his empty shotgun in hand. He knew it had to be ridiculous, understanding that the device was useless…but he couldn't help feel that it gave him a sense of security, albeit a false one.

* * *

John didn't have a clue of what time it was. His ass had long ago gone numb. His sons were sleeping fitfully in between the commode and the sink. Dean's head was snapped back, his mouth lax open. Dean had tried to stay up with him, but soon the calling of sleep beckoned and he found he could no longer ignore it.

Sam hadn't moved. His breaths, before, were shallow and inconsistent, now had mellowed out. Apart from a few harsh coughs, it sounded like he went off into a deep exhaustive sleep. Keeping his feet on the door, John leaned over and ran a hand along the side of his youngest face. It was cool to the touch. His pallor had paled a great deal since he last saw him. But that could be from the minor bloodloss and shock.

When the stitch in his side grew to 'warning' levels, he pulled back, happy and so relieved that he had arrived in time. But that didn't mean his worry had lessened. Taking one look at the bloody smudges covering Sam's legs gave proof to that.

He felt very little comfort in that moment, because a very unpleasant thought struck him, struck him hard. The monster was here tonight. _Why?_ And it went after Sam. _Again why?_ His son nearly became another choice off the monster's menu. He had thought his mind was reeling before in the rapid goose chase. Now, his mind was in a whirlpool full of plausible leads. And with less time, because now this hunt concerned one of his own.

And not just one of his own, his baby. The conjunction never seemed to stop popping in his overly-taxed head. _Why? Why? Just WHY? Why his son?_ Sam hadn't met the suspected qualities the other victims had. He was not egotistical (though angsty). He was not mean or ambitious in any way. He didn't have a girlfriend to cheat on. So what made him so special to be sought out as the next meal?

The father contemplated for a long time...grimly ending up with nothing. Thinking of the other victims, he still could produce no common ground between them all. There was nothing that linked them all together. Nothing of extraordinary value that shown like a neon sign calling out 'Come Eat Me'.

The two lovers. The high school jock. His girlfriend. The egotistical maniac. The mailman. Gloria Retvern. None of the victims knew each other, besides the jock and his girlfriend. None of them had interacted…or had gone to a particular place. Sam, for one, hadn't gone to many places. And if he did, it was always with his brother. So what? What did he have that had him tagged? What had he done? Nothing as far as John was concerned.

_Nothing._

There was nothing. No lead. Nada.

John blinked.

The light-bulb over his head lit up brightly.

That was it. _Nothing_. There was nothing between them. No similarity. No common interest. No pattern. And typically when there is no pattern, the monster was not behind it. Every creature he had ever encountered always had a specific MO to its victims. Tricksters always went after pompous smucks or the haughty. Wendigos went after anyone residing in the woods. Even shapeshifters went after particular people of interest, usually ones that glimmer.

But this fiend certainly wasn't any of those. And if the monster wasn't intentionally behind the attacks, then that left only one possibility. It had to be someone or something else responsible. _Possibly human._ Someone who knew these people; who possibly had a grudge. Someone who knew how to manipulate the monster. That would explain the pattern. Otherwise it'd be on a human binge every night, and more than just seven dead over the last week.

John was becoming all the more satisfied at that thought. If it was true and someone was in charge of it, then he'd have a better chance of getting rid of whatever it is. Only now he just had to find them. Especially now, because what if that thing wanted seconds?

His nose crinkled. The stench of molten sewage was back. Keeping his feet up high, his gun poised, he listened. Rustling was heard on the outside and very soon there were scratches. Looking at the crack of the door, John saw the darkness grow darker, almost like smoke, coming in a little ways under. The smoke stopped at the light, billowed a fraction before retreating back. The rustling sounded again and he swore he could've heard the floorboards creak harmoniously.

John scoffed. The little shit was pacing…waiting. Probably thinking of what better way to get inside. John gave a smug smile. It could keep waiting. It was never getting to his son ever again. Not as long as he lived.

* * *

Though empty, Dean cocked the shotgun. Giving his father one last determined look, he nodded alerting the ex-Marine he was ready. John nodded back, adjusting his arms a little to support holding his son. Sam's legs were still a mess and were immobile, hence the inability to walk out. The plan was to flee from the bathroom and get to the Impala fast. If the fiend was still around, John couldn't risk it springing on them while helping Sam move slowly to the car. Carrying the wounded teenager was their best bet.

John gave the 'go ahead' nod to Dean, taking a deep breath. Sam, understanding what was about to happen, tightened his hands around his dad's neck, preparing as well. Dean took the cue and, as trained, pulled open the door fast. Pointing the gun first, he scanned the room, up on the ceiling, down on the floor, noting the torn covers and upturned table. It seemed as though the _shit-for-brains_ had a temper tantrum. Once deemed clear, he quickly stepped out and continued for the door, searching and scanning.

John came out afterwards. He didn't look around. He didn't pause to appreciate the dawns' lights pouring in through the windows. He had only one goal: the Impala. Dean was the first to reach the door, which they had noticed was closed. Opening it, he allowed his dad and brother to exit first before slamming the door shut.

Stowing Sam carefully in the back seat, the remaining two hastily hopped in the front and drove away fast.

Destination: _Anywhere but here._


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: **

**The Great Escape**

He knew _it_ was coming. His body told him so.

Sam woke with a start sensing _it_ slide grossly up his pipe. He swallowed, feeling his mouth water. Sweat beaded in globs all over his face as he fought the oncoming sickness. Heat came off in waves; his body too weak for homeostasis to kick in. It felt like he was lying under a heating-lamp, which didn't help the nausea. He tried to move. But movement could've compared to that of walking on water: a damn near impossible task—unless you're Jesus.

Panic had set in, as the bile shot up like a geyser about ready to burst. It was inevitable. There was no fighting it. Groping the blankets, Sam rolled over and allowed the grotesque liquid to jettison onto the bed and carpet. It stung terribly. Tears pooled at his lids from the strain. The heat his body exhibited was so intense, it felt, he couldn't escape it.

Soon his gut was filled with more painful spasms and he let forth the inevitable again. This time it hurt worse as his throat was already raw from the first bout. Jamming a fork in his leg probably would have hurt less.

He opened his eyes and groaned at seeing the yellow substance splattered near his head and all down the side of the nightstand. That particular patch of the current motel's emerald green carpet was probably destroyed. The contents stuck badly, ergo ruining it more. He wanted to roll back over, move his head out of the gunk, but the strain from vomiting had left his body drained.

The areas around the bandages on his arms and legs were in an all-out itch concert, with burning as the main ensemble. It was an ongoing process: Itch. Burn. Cool. Itch. Burn. Cool. Moving probably would have calmed the ever-going fest, but that wasn't going to happen. It seemed like all his energy was zapped, only enough left to keep his lids partially open.

So he just lied there, partly hanging off the edge, staring at the lamplight currently beneath the opposite bed-frame in a daze, listening to the shower go off. He knew he was dying. In a way, he welcomed it. The pain in his legs throbbed periodically. A headache brewed. He was sick. And now he was stuck looking at his own mess.

Could it get any worse than this?

* * *

"Dad, I think he's getting worse," Dean's concerned voice reverberated overtop of Sam's wheezes in the Impala's interior.

Hunched over the back of the front seat, Dean tugged the army quilt over his brother's quivering frame, his face scrunched with worry. Sam looked a holy mess. The coughing fits increased in severity and length. Sweat poured off the kid's face in little rivers drenching the side of his hoodie and pillow. The bright green eyes were glazed, blinking heavily. His body was in a worrying state of shivers, and Hell if he could speak; his mind no doubt fallen victim to the fever.

It came as a fright when Dean emerged from his afternoon shower to find Sam slumped on his side, non-moving.

Take that back! It scared the _fucking Bejesus_ out of him!

Careless when the towel fell leaving him in his birthday suit, he raced over to the pale flaccid creature. Relief befell him when he had felt a pulse under the clammy facial. He took the biggest breather he had in his life. Pushing the kid onto the opposite side of the bed to get his head away from the muck, Dean went about cleaning the mess up before his Dad came back from obtaining their belongings from their recently vacated motel room and getting a late lunch.

After the mess was cleaned—half-ass, he might add—and he was dressed, was primarily when the shit hit the fan. It wasn't his idea to get another motel room, especially after the shindig that went down in the last one. The decision was left up to their Dad, who insisted that Sam sleep in a real bed, to stretch out his injured legs. Dean would have preferred to stay in the Impala, his only real safe-zone. John felt the same way. Only for Sam's sake, they made a pitstop for an afternoon—when daylight was still out.

And at that point, Dean was glad they were in a facility with a decent bathroom and accommodating services.

Sam had become sick.

Real sick.

Like puking his guts up non-stop for an hour sick…literally.

Dean didn't think that was possible. But Sam was able to manage that feat, unfortunately. It was like he was upchucking the past three week's meals. He swore they had pasta two Saturday's ago. His Dad had finally returned when he had managed to haul Sam to the bathroom and hold his head up while the kid liquefied the porcelain sea. If that didn't earn him Big Brother of the Year Award, then what did? Sam was so drained by the end of that hour; it was all he could do to keep his head up over the rim of the toilet.

Trying to get liquids in him was a whole other task Dean refused to think about. Ultimately, it ended with him and his Dad leaning Sam's head back, whilst John carefully poured some water down his throat. Their work hardly paid off. Parts of the water would soon reappear again, dousing them and Sam's front shirt.

Very soon after Dean was certain Sam was dried out, they carried him back to the sheet-less bed. Very soon after that the frame-wracking shivers started. And very soon after that was when the horrible stomach cramps began. Sam would toss and turn, bend at the waist, clamp his hands around his abdomen, crying out in misery over the pain.

For two straight hours, the kid was tormented with nasty spasms. Water wouldn't take care of it. The tablets of Tylenol were a joke. And soaking in a hot bath would have been nice had the kid been able to agree to it. There was no end, it seemed. Only until dear Ole Pop's mashed and given at least three Percosets in a Pepsi cocktail did Sam officially go quiet.

John had cast a weary eye out the window, learning it was nearing twilight. His plan was to hit the road before then, and it was adamant that they stick to plan. His goal was to head to Pastor Jim's house. The pastor, a friend/hunter he'd known since the boys were tots, had a nice cottage and chapel over in Blue Earth, Minnesota. It was a good twelve-hour drive. But it was the closest place—closest friend he could trust. He would drop the boys off there and come back to finish the job. That way Sam was near medical help and could be safe.

Devoted to the plan, John decided to take the risk. Dressing the teenager in his blue hoodie overtop a red T-shirt and gray sweatpants, he carried his sick boy to the backseat of his precious 'baby on wheels'. Covering him in his army blanket, making sure he was comfortable, John set out. After his eldest had collected the rest of their belongings, and had turned on a flashlight beneath both the back and front seats, they began to head towards Blue Earth.

Obviously it became uncomfortable for Sam. Not long into the journey did the whimpering moans start. Dean had fed the kid practically the whole bottle of Tylenol. He wanted to use the rest of the precious prescription-based Percosets, but it wouldn't have mattered as John had to pull over several times for the kid to vomit some more.

Managing the task of keeping Sam hydrated was more difficult than Dean thought. In a fast-moving vehicle, it would probably be better if he spritzed it at him. And it only made him worry all the more. Sam was obviously struggling in the woes of a severe fever, bruised and lacerated legs, and constant debilitating coughing fits. He didn't like the thought of it, but Sam was going to need medical attention.

Dean turned back around in his seat when Sam emitted another whimpered squeak. That was all the kid had managed to say within the last hour. "Dad. It's getting bad. He's way too hot. I think we need to take him to a clinic."

John stayed quiet as he listened to Dean's complaint. He glimpsed in the rearview mirror, catching only the tops of Sam's shoulders and elbows. His own concern for his youngest increased exponentially, reaching past critical point. Dean's suggestions seemed like the right thing to do, but they were at least two hours from anywhere. Usually it was an exaggeration when someone referred to a place as in the middle of nowhere. Here, driving past nothing else besides fields of corn and wheat pastures and not seeing a decent sized town in sight for hours, the Winchesters can literally vouch for the phrase.

Taking his surroundings into consideration, he gazed back at his eldest. "How bad?" he asked calmly, trying hard to keep the fear out of his voice.

"Pretty bad," Dean briefed, "And I'm serious! I think we need to take him in. Whatever that thing is, I'm hoping it didn't give him anything. But like I said he's way too hot. We have to get his fever down."

John nodded, understanding what Dean had relayed. The tingle in his gut for his child wriggled some more, making him queasy. "Okay. I'm hoping we'll find another town within the hour. If we do, we'll take him to whatever they have," he expelled out a breath, content with that decision. "In the mean time, why don't we find a gas mart or something? Get some more Tylenol and ice packs. Try to cool him down. Might as well get a few more flashlights as the sun's down now. Can't risk the bastard getting in cuz there aren't any lights inside the car."

Dean gave a feeble smile. That's exactly what he wanted to hear from his dad. And it surprised him to hear him say it. Once his father was dead-set on something, there were no stops in between. "That's the smartest thing you said all day. Good idea. I'm hoping at the mart they'll have some kind of antibiotics. That'll help some."

"Yeah," John agreed tentatively. The tingle in his gut tripled. That word: Antibiotics. He didn't know why, but just the term caused his paranoia and concern to escalate some more. What if the monster did give Sam something? What if modern medicine couldn't fight the disease? What if Sam was unable to fight it and died? He cringed at that thought. The world suddenly seemed darker, more surreal at the possibility his son (or either one of them) had ceased to exist.

The anger directed at his eldest over their last phone call had simmered for a while. Shock was still present over the lambasting tone Dean gave him. He wanted to rip his twenty-year old a new asshole. But given Sam's state (especially now!), it wasn't the appropriate time. Though it did strike him that he noticed the sickly pallor before. And that's when it hit him like a train wreck.

Sam did have a harsh cough several days before and slumped shoulders as if he were in a constant state of fatigue. And the way his eyes glazed over. He was supporting the initial symptoms of the flu. Maybe he had overlooked that, believing Sam was being his moody self-centered self. Dean had mentioned it that he wasn't feeling well, but he ignored it—being still furious at his kid. And he had forced Sam to stay at the Calvin's and clean his house in that condemnable filth, just so he would have a viable lead. And now possibly whatever was happening with him could've been progressing much faster now since he was weakened before. His anger for his eldest instantly died down.

Dean wasn't trying to pull authority over him. He was just coming to Sammy's rescue. Submerged neck-high in contrite and worry, he vowed to never put the hunt, or his competitiveness before his sons' health again. So instead of cowering away in guilt, now it was his turn to come to his child's rescue. Stepping harder on his girl's gas pedal was the only consolation he felt at that moment.

* * *

The night had become darker, seemingly pitching a black drape in front of their eyes. It was a rarity Dean seldom encountered, believe it or not. Except for the dim glow of his Baby's lights barely penetrating the darkness, everything else looked to be on the set of _Pitch Black_. He gazed out the window and noticed there were no stars or moon. The sky was obscured in deep cloud cover. Silhouettes of trees passed in a blur. And the road stretched out before them like a black snake, endless, like a proverbial highway to Hell.

An hour and a half had passed. An _hour and a half_ it was since the decision was made to find a gas station. It wasn't like they haven't found one; they found plenty, sure; but ones that were open—not so lucky.

_Curses! And they called themselves Convenient?_

Sam's wheezes had dulled down half an hour before. He seemed to have been sleeping peacefully, had it not been for the occasional coughing fit from Hell. The harsh barks nearly sent the kid into the floorboard, the aftermath leaving him in terrible shakes and pained whimpers.

Reaching over the backseat when the bouts would start, Dean made sure Sam stayed put, covering his mouth with a tissue he procured from the glovebox. The last throat-pulverizing session was bad. Dean swore the kid had finally done it and hacked up a lung. It wasn't far from the truth when he pulled back and saw from the glow beneath the seats a dark substance in the tissue. Bending down to the floorboard beside the light, he studied the cotton material and with deep dread learned it was splattered in bloody sputum.

Forget concern…downright unadulterated fear skyrocketed up his emotional high-striker. He turned to his Dad and demanded that he pull a _Speedy Gonzales_ and find a place pronto.

To which John failed to disagree.

Each was flooded with relief when they had finally seen an effulgent shine looming ahead. Though MIA at the moment, their happiness reached high soaring over the moon.

John refused to let up on the gas, until they were practically skidding into the gravel parking lot of _Get-N-Zip_. Their euphoria continued to climb when they learned it was a convenience store. Parking in the only remaining space alongside the edge of the forest was, in their minds, not a good idea. But they didn't have a choice. Sam needed the supplies now.

Pulling into the spot, John exited quickly calling Dean to come with him. Dean protested, wanting to stay in the car with Sam. John persuaded easily by telling him it'll be quicker if they both had fanned out and collected the essential items. Not bothering to lock the doors, Dean jumped out and both jogged inside, just as a white pick-up parked on the forest side of the Impala.

Accustomed to the darkness for so long, the bright light inside the small store came as a big shock. Momentarily blinded, the two strode on toward the First-Aid section.

Immediately once the desired items were within sight, they grabbed at them like an impulse buyer at a Clearance sale. Very shortly was Dean's arms filled with multiple ice packs, Tylenol boxes, and the typical candy-bar. John had made sure he went for the other necessary items like antibiotic ointment, gauze pads, and ace bandages: anything Sam might need during the journey and while at Pastor Jim's.

They would've been back at the car in no time, had the store's checkout line not been as long as Paris. Mainly the locals took up most of the line, all wearing 49ner football hats and jackets, stocking up on that weekends' _Ten to Midnight_ beer and chip sale; probably gearing up for a party with their buddies: the TV and the couch.

John and Dean stood impatiently, tapping their toes, as the cashier, a rickety old man wearing glasses that magnified his eyes to three times their normal size sluggishly took each fan's cash. He moved at a pace that molasses probably would have won if they were in a race. Dean had to chew on his tongue as a method to keep him occupied. Any slower and he swore _Captain Insano_ was about to make his grand entrance. Whoever said patience was a virtue should have been shot?

There wasn't any doubt that a new Ice Age had come and gone by the time the duo reached the counter. The cashier didn't say a word, just stared waiting for all the items to be poured on the worn surface. Slowly he went about continuing his job, laggardly scanning the contents and punching in the numbers with wrinkly fingers.

John, sensing the animosity coming off Dean, took a step in front of him, in case his belligerent child was about to prove his reputation. He listened to the grinding of teeth, the classic sign that if the man didn't pick up the pace, Dean was about to break off his leash. Even at the best of times, his son was a like a rabid wolverine itching for the first bite.

Luckily the old man's zombie-like pace was consistent and soon one big brown bag was filled. Dean's candy-bar was already chewed and swallowed by the time they hit the door he was so aggravated. Running to the car at a jog, John came around the driver side and stopped dead.

"Oh my God," he exclaimed.

The back passenger door was open. Leaping around the door, his heart literally jump-started when the backseat was found empty, the pillow and blanket split on the ground.

Hearing his Dad's exclamation, Dean peered into the backseat and his heart stopped too.

Sam was gone.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15:**

**Somebody's In Trouble!**

Willis felt triumphant. A smile that could outmatch the grin on The Cheshire Cat was chiseled onto his chubby foul face. Though behind the wheel, he felt like he could do jumping jacks. He would be the hero and not that John Winchester.

Driving down the dark road at dangerous speeds back towards town, he felt like a hero. Not only had he managed to figure out the _monster's_ lair, but he had also obtained a suitable candidate as bait.

It may have been seen as poetic justice, using that pompous, no-good Winchester's son to rid of the beast. Perhaps if John hadn't been so selfish and allowed him to work alongside, partner-to-partner, instead of taking lead in tracking it, maybe it wouldn't have come to this. He wanted to take a victory in something. He was willing to share. What was so difficult in that? Yeah, sure the social worker's death was on his head, but there was no reason for the man to explode at him. In his line of work, deaths occur all the time. The woman's demise was no different than the rest.

So besides, the way he saw it, this was _just desserts_. Given what he viewed as his traditional soft, caring nature, he wouldn't actually try to kill the kid. Just allow the creature to get close enough to where he would blow its brains out. The shower of metal hadn't worked last time, so hopefully a good wrecking ball of an impact to the head would to the trick.

That's all. No harm, no foul.

He took a sly glance at his prize. And a tiny amount of guilt festered at the thought of using a kid—and not just that, but a terribly sick kid.

_But it was for the greater good_, he told himself. That was what his mentor, Gallon, had told him while in Oregon. Sacrifices had to be made in order to keep the balance in order to keep the rest of the population safe.

Besides using the kid was a sure thing. Arriving at the motel room he knew the Winchester's were booked in earlier that morning, after witnessing the blood stains under the bed and all along the floor, the overturned lamp, the scratches on the bathroom door—it wasn't hard putting two and two together. The creature had paid a visit.

Considering if it had torn the victim apart, logic pointed out that there would have been a lot more blood, and possibly torn appendages. Since there wasn't but a smear and the door left open, it meant that the victim had survived. And if they were still alive, the creature more than likely would make a special trip for seconds.

Granted he didn't know which of the three had been attacked, but one of them was good enough. People's lives can be spared if the monster was put down for good. Using the only 'alive and kicking' victim seemed like the best choice. It was now or never.

Though he knew it wouldn't have been easy. First he had to figure the direction from which the Winchesters left. The blackened tire ruts left on the pavement struck a chord with his instincts and he had found his direction. He hadn't been traveling long before he found the distinctive black Chevy in a parking lot of another motel. Feeling the need to stake it out, he waited patiently watching with binoculars. It was around sundown when the trio had finally exited the building, with John carrying what looked to be his youngest to the backseat. A feeling of sorrow sprouted. Of all people, it had to be a kid.

Well, it was what it was.

He quickly overcame his feeling of guilt. If he wanted to be the best of the best, then all emotions had to be thrown out the window. The innocents came first. He knew he was going to Hell, but he might as well save a few people along the way. Following closely behind John's _Nascar_-racing speed, he made sure to keep his distance so John wouldn't acknowledge his presence. The entire journey, countless scenarios formed in his head about how he was going to acquire the kid. None that had come to mind was logical, nor was viable in that he'd escape in one piece. Hours had come and gone, and soon it got to the point where he wondered if John was ever going to stop. It was well past dark then, and he knew he had to act fast.

The heavenly bodies up above must've given him a sign. Soon after he had begun to have doubts about the so-called plan was when the bright lights of a store came into view. His excitement grew larger in scale as he found the Impala parked over on the edge of the forest and the car seemingly unoccupied. It was his sign as he pulled his white pick-up over on the side and there were no witnesses in the lot. He quickly got out. Peering into the backseat, he saw the youngest curled in a blanket, shaking. He chuckled. It almost was too easy. Opening the door came as a bigger surprise. John Winchester thought he was the best, but didn't bother to secure his son by locking the doors? _Tsk. Tsk._

Time was critical. Willis worked swiftly, carefully lifting the limp shoulders. The kid was exceptionally light and slid out easily. The blanket and pillow caught on his legs, dragged behind and fell to the ground. He dragged the limp body the short distance to the passenger door of the truck. The boy's head lolled back and forth, his arms flopping by his sides as he stowed him into the seat. Closing the door, he ran to the driver's side and lurched out of the parking lot fast. It wouldn't be long before John came back and notice his child missing. And very soon there would be a very pissed off Winchester on his ass. So the faster he reached the town, lure the creature to its death, the faster he could return the boy and get the Hell away.

Maybe he was acting a bit zealous in the matter. Perhaps he was still a little sore over John's condescending lecture to him earlier, and this was his way of payback. But still, he did just kidnap a kid.

Stealing another glance at the teenager burrowed against his door, that soft-caring nature he worked so hard to abandon returned, and he felt pity. The boy's face was hard to see under the sweatshirt hood, but he could hear the constant short coughs. The teenager's quietness had intrigued him. He didn't even wake up whilst dragging him to the truck, which caused him to think that the kid was really sick. He was really hot to the touch too. Perhaps he should take him to a hospital?

Considering he mostly drove through believably _undiscovered_ territory for the past few hours, there was nowhere he could take him. No towns or roadside pitstops. And without a nearby town, besides the one he was heading for, there was no medical help. He would just have to suck it up and carry out what he intended on doing. Though he couldn't help but notice the shivers out of his peripheral vision. His caring side once again taking the ropes, he reached under the seat and pulled out a moth-eaten blanket. Using only one hand, he draped it over the scrawny shoulders to the best of his ability.

Soon.

It would be very soon. He'd have his victory. And then John Winchester can have his son back, hopefully in one piece. Content with that notion, Willis pressed on the gas.

* * *

The people were scared. And that was saying something considering they were husky built construction workers and league football players. Any minute now the century-old man was about to call the cops. Two gung-ho hooligans were making a ruckus out in the parking lot. The same two paramedic-wannabes paced back and forth yelling at the top of their lungs, beating on anything in close proximity. It was evident they were beyond furious over something…but that didn't mean they had to take out their anger on the building.

To say the two remaining Winchester men were furious as Hell would have been a major understatement. Raining fireballs and cyclones of torrential windstorms wouldn't have come close to their fury. How could they have been stupid enough to leave the doors unlocked? How could they have left Sam by himself for so long? Who took him? Or more frightening to say, what took him? And was he still alive? He needed those medical items. If he didn't have them, what would become of him?

Dean was about to cry, he was so angry. Well, rather terrified. This was certainly not a bump he foresaw in the rocky road. Yanking on clumps of head-hair, he paced back and forth unable to think of what to do.

John was also livid. Angry with himself. Angry with his eldest. Angry at the inhabitants in the parking lot. Ah Hell, he was just downright pissed with everything. After the discovery of Sam's absence, he went about asking—more like screaming desperately—to the coteries of men sitting at their trucks. None of who would own up to seeing a sickly teenager or anyone who was with him.

The father was about to explode when one unsuspecting man exited the store. Confronting him, a poor wiry nerd it appeared—had to be the glasses and the school bus yellow necktie—trembled at John's presence. He did, however, admit to seeing a white truck on the opposite side of the Impala leave hastily as he pulled in. With only that information to go by, John instantly raced around to the spot and took out his flashlight. Dean followed suit, taking out his flashlight as well, copying his father. John searched and searched, for clues, for footprints, tire ruts, everything.

And he found everything.

He saw where the tires rested in the mud. He saw the muddy boot-prints leading up to the cab's door. He even saw long lines carved into the grass, where the bastard must've dragged his son out. All led to the vehicle, which like the man said raced out of there. Still following the muddy tire-tracks, they both learned the direction in which the truck was traveling. Back to home base.

_Perfect. Just perfect_, Dean thought facetiously.

"Get in the car Dean," John ordered hopping into the driver's seat.

"No need to tell me twice sir," Dean obeyed running to the passenger's side.

Once in, John steered the car around dangerously nearly causing a lot of fender benders, frightening the stocky men all the more. Whipping the gear into place, he launched the car onto the road, heading back into the direction that made their stomachs crawl.

* * *

The gas pedal laid flat against the floorboard, the engine's roar pulsating heavily on its occupants' eardrums. After the quick turnabout to get gas, the Impala was now back on the road eating at the miles greedily. There would be no stopping. There would be no looking back, in case a cop had decided to maintain his quota.

Pure loathing escaped from John' s eyes, almost, in a way, he was seeing red. The senses of anger, frustration, and terror emanated off his presence in powerful waves, leaving with them a crippling aftershock. His head tilted, the eyebrows furrowed, his eyes non-blinking. He had the determined look of a father heading over to an unsuspecting boyfriend's house with a shotgun loaded after his daughter learned she was late. As one would expect, conversation wasn't appropriate after Dean relayed to him whom the first suspect as the kidnapper would be.

"Why would it be Calvin?" John's rough voice barked, producing an echo.

"After everything Sammy told me in the diner, all the clues lead to this guy," Dean answered automatically. "His little house on the prairie, you told me, houses the damn thing. All the symbols on the trees, it's covers the entire expense of his woods. Not only that, but his wife? Was Sylvia Rorshak. The first victim," he enumerated off his fingers.

"What?" John exclaimed, "How do you know that?"

"Sam. He said he found her picture in their home, and he also found out Rorshak's real name was Maggie Fisher. She left Calvin when Leann was like seven years old."

John huffed, disbelieving that now it was all starting to come together. "That's right. Rorshak was only in town for a few weeks. No one really knew who she was. And she had custody papers for a little girl. Langton said she was trying to get her daughter back, but no one knew whom. There was no name on the papers. What was her name again?"

"Maggie Fisher."

"Maggie Fisher," he repeated, now starting to ponder. "M.F…M.F," it hit him like a lightning bolt. "T.C and M.F. It could be? Keep going. What else have you got?"

"Oh, and it gets better," Dean replied sarcastically, "I was thinking about this ever since you told me what happened with you and Willis in the house. That social worker our Boogeyman got to? Glorie…Gloror?"

"Gloria Retvern." John corrected.

"Yeah, her. Sam told me her name was on the fridge, marked out in red. And ever since the whole shit went down with his wife, he'd been visited and hounded by child services since then. I think she had an appointment with him next week?"

"That's right, she said that."

"Uh huh, and that Brian kid? You know the one who bought it under the bed? Apparently his daughter had a big ass crush on him. And know how the man reacted when Sam told him and he and Leann were friends?"

John's gaze narrowed. Calvin was looking more and more like their mystery villain. If he had his son, God Help Him.

"Besides the fact," Dean went on, "when we met up with that thing in the woods, what was Calvin doing out there anyway? You know how far his little treehouse is from his home. There's no way he could've gotten the gun on me in the short amount of time I was shooting. He had to have been out there by then? The question is why?"

"And another one…why would he have Sam?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe to make the last sacrifice or something…" he paused wide-eyed as the answer hit him too like a lightning bolt. "Or…maybe it was Sam could've stumbled upon something. I know that kid. He was in his house all day. Sam easily could've found something Calvin didn't want him to see. And maybe this is to shut him up?"

John sent a wondrous gaze. "Do you have any idea what it could be?"

"Maybe," Dean tapped his fingers, running over all the things his little brother told him at dinner. "Sam told me something about a jug Calvin had. A jug of perfume, or whatever. He told me he accidentally knocked it over and Calvin freaked. Like King Kong freaked!"

"Perfume?"

"Yeah. Or some type of smelly liquid. And I think Sam got it all over him, cuz when we met up last night, he stunk of it really bad."

"Jug?" John repeated in a whisper. "Bottle? Sam didn't happen to say what color the jug was, did he?"

"No, I don't think so. I don't remember."

John's head came off at a tilt, processing the information thinking back to all the victim's scenes. "It wouldn't happen to be blue, would it? Like sapphire blue with a gold top?"

Dean turned an inquisitive glare at his father. "You catchin' on to something Dad?"

"I think so. But there's only one way to find out.

The engine's roar grew louder.

* * *

The arrival to Calvin's house was hasty and ended with the Impala more or less in need of a new suspension. Dean hardly waited for the car to come to a complete stop before he was running up the muddy driveway, pulling out his favorite friend, his Nine Millimeter. His father screamed like a modern-day army General, but he paid no heed. His little brother could very well be inside this plague of a house, possibly being served to a monster, and Hell if he was going to walk.

With his son frustratingly ignoring him again, John left the car running. Jumping out, forgetting his weapon on the seat, he bounded after Dean in hopes to catch him before his belligerent child stirred up more shit than a mare in heat.

"Dean. You stop right now, young man!" he ordered. But to no avail, his soldier mutinied by continuing on through the door. "Dean, stop!"

He leapt the last few yards, coming to the door…and then finally understood the source of his son's defiance. There was screaming. A girl's pleading scream penetrating through the walls, seemingly coming from everywhere. John forgot all about protocol, his hero instincts preceding causing him to rush inside. Momentarily stunned by the horrible smell of rotten cabbage inside the home, he overcame his senses with difficulty, heading forward; attempting to discern which direction the screaming was coming.

Footfalls to his left alerted his attention to his son shooting out from another room with his gun drawn.

Dean shook his head. "Nothing. It's gotta be from upstairs."

"Quick, hurry!" John immediately fell in line, while Dean sprinted up the narrow staircase. Barging through the door at the top of the stairs, the two men stopped dead at the sight. Angrily, Dean aimed, his finger resting on the pull-trigger about ready to squeeze.

"Drop it!" Dean ordered.

Calvin eyed the two men stunned, keeping a hold on the object in his hands. His caramel haired daughter stood, pale and sickly, at the front of her bed in her pink Minnie Mouse nightgown, sopping wet. Drops of liquid fell from the broken blue crystal in Calvin's hands, landing in the fuzz that was the girl's hair. Quivering like an air-born fish, Leann bawled incessantly with heavy tears leaking down her chubby cheeks. A patch of red and purple on her right wrist shone like a beacon. Dean studied it quickly and saw it looked to be a raw infected bite.

Dean's face twisted in madness. He recognized the stale stench coming from Leann. It was the same Sam had on in the diner. "I said drop it," he said darkly. "And move away!"

Calvin sneered, bearing his crooked yellow teeth. "Ew point that hole elsewhere, ya dumb sum-bitch. Betty yet, point it at her!" he threw a chubby finger in the direction of the whimpering heap that was his kid.

Leann let out a few more sobbing shrieks. "Daddy, n-no!"

Dean snarled, "Get away from her now!" When the man still refused to obey his command, he pulled back the hammer on the Eagle. "NOW!"

John stepped forward, "What the hell are you doing Calvin?"

The crazy man huffed impatiently. "That thing got to my kid," he pointed to her arm, where they saw a purple and red bite, nasty swelling. "Soon it will be back. So I might as well put her out of her misery."

Dean couldn't believe what the man just said. At least now it was resolved that Calvin was the intended suspect. "You're crazy." He had to fight off the impulse to start shooting. The aggravation, the disgust. "She's your daughter. Your own flesh and blood."

Calvin scoffed. "Nothing but a pain in my ass. Just like her mother."

"Leann come here," Dean called softly.

"She's not going anywhere," Calvin stepped forward, holding back when Dean let off a shot at the ceiling, dropping the broken jug. Leann shrieked leaping like a cat in fright into the comfort and safety of her bed. At the loud shot, terror and desperation spurred in the pot-bellied pig-man, and he ran forward, obviously trying to escape.

What Calvin believed would be an easy get-a-away by conducting a Rugby tackle into the larger of the two Winchesters, he was easily mistaken when John whirled around like a Matador, catching the pudgy man and shoving him into the wall. Using brute force, Calvin shoved him away, but only fled as far as the hallway, when his kneecap was brutally kicked into the side. Emitting a pained caterwaul, he sprawled to the ground like a goopy amoeba.

Dean and John were quick to advance on him. John pulled him up and once again pinned him to the wall near a picture frame.

"Mister you got a lot of explaining to do," Dean said.

"I ain't got nothing to tell ew, ew twat," Calvin hocked a wad spitting it out. Dean dodged the wad with ease. Enraged, John elbowed the man hard in his nose. He howled with pain, choking when John pressed his elbow further into his windpipe.

"Where's Sam?" John asked dangerously.

"Who?"

"My brother!" Dean answered. "You know, your slave for most part of the day?"

The man adopted a confused expression. "I don't know. Why the hell would I have that good-for-nothing brownnoser?"

A sharp pain clenched in John's gut. If Calvin didn't have Sam, there was always the alternative. He glared at the pudgy mass before him murderously. "Then if you don't have Sam, then you got some talking to do." John enforced.

"What was that stuff you were dousing Leann in…and tell me it wasn't lighter fluid. My finger still on the trigger so I won't hesitate," Dean demanded.

Calvin breathed in sharply, eyeing the hole of the gun like it was the Lord and Savior. "I…I don't know what it is. That's the larger of the two bottles my wife and I took. Whatever it is, it draws the thing. Like it's some sort of Catnip or somethin'."

And there it was, the ultimate clue that confirmed John and Dean's suspicions. The common ground that brought everything, every murder together, and why Sam was caught in the mix. The next thing Calvin knew the cold end of a gun was pressed to his head by a rather testy twenty-year-old. An indescribable fury was rolling off the youngster in waves. The old man stood shellshocked, terrified to make any movement.

John relented taking a step back, realizing he was unneeded.

"Start talkin'." Dean said, narrowing his eyes.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: **

**Zoiks! Let's Get Out Of Here Scooby Doo!**

"Start talking."

The message conveyed in the young man's powerful tone couldn't have been any clearer. Calvin gulped, curling his fist to impede the slight tremble coursing through it. This was the first time he'd been put under gunpoint. His beady eyes shined with fright a second before a gleam of courage bore through. "No"

Dean pulled back the hammer again to enforce his point. Never was there a time he would so willingly kill a human. If it had come to that point, all instincts were ready to pull the trigger. There wasn't any time left to meddle in this affair. It was time to get to the bottom of this situation. Direct intimidation could be a cool tool to use when necessary.

"Mister. My son doesn't play around when it comes to his little brother," John added to the intimidation tactic. "So if I were you, I'd do as he says."

"You said you and your wife took the bottle? What's in it? Where did it come from?" Dean asked eagerly.

Calvin still said nothing. He stared defiantly at the two men.

A deep-seated scowl wormed its way on Dean's facial, and his eye began to twitch. "Calvin if you don't answer the question in the next five seconds, I'm going to shoot you. To me, it doesn't matter where. I hear the kneecap is a real great place to start. And if you still remain silent five seconds after that, I'll shoot you again. Get the picture. Now I'll ask again this once, where did you get this stuff?"

The man's facial muscles twitched and squirmed; obviously relaying he was in debate over the current quandary about whether or not to divulge the truth. He sent a glance behind Dean's left shoulder, before settling his panic-stricken gaze back on his weapon.

"Fine," he gritted his crooked teeth. "It was my wife's. Her and I found it in some cottage on the other side of town when we were kids. I don't know what's in it, but she had a bottle of her own. She took it with her along with the many other boxes of shit she cared more for."

"And about the creature? How do you know about this thing?" John asked. When the man still consisted to challenge by his silence, the desperate father came forward and shove him hard against the wall once more, keeping his large steel-like hand around the oleaginous fatty neck. "This isn't a game old man! This thing is out there right now hunting my son. If we don't put a stop to it, then he's dead and that's on your head. Now tell us what you know and NOW!"

"Fine. Fine," Calvin finally shredded his muteness in answering. Apparently his inner qualm about solicitude wasn't enough to keep him quiet. "I don't know what it is. All I know is I found it last weekend."

"You found it?" Dean reiterated.

"Well, no…I…I don't know, it was just there," he blubbered, looking between the men anxiously. "It was in the old house, my Great-Uncles old house in meh lot. I found out my wife was back in town. She called me that morning saying she wanted Leann, and that…that pesky social worker would come by next week and proceed with the custody hearing."

"Why did your wife leave in the first place?" Dean asked, slowly becoming aware of his weapon lowering.

Calvin turned a torn/hateful look his way. "I don't know, ewe'll have to ask her that. Oh wait, no ew can't. She's dead," he remarked boorishly.

"Get back to what you were saying," John commanded, unperturbed by the man's uncouth statement. "That day when she called?"

Their suspect let out an enormous huff. Dean could see the emotion swelling in the black eyes. This was hard on him. "She called," Calvin continued. "So I got drunk, cuz I knew there was no way out of it. And I went to the house that was where we first met. She was always so gung-ho about ghost stories. That's her entire collection in the bookshelf down there. We went in and looked around and didn't find nothing; nothing but a few pretty bottles."

He turned away, letting out another staggering alcohol-induced breath. "Maggie told me she snuck into the cottage not long before we met in the woods. Said she saw some more of those jugs and bottles there. So we went back to that little cottage up on Parker's Grove and broke into it one night and took a good portion of those people's collection. Maggie kept one bottle. I kept the rest…I wanted to get rid of her memory, so I took our entire collection and went back to the house. Only then, that night, I found something. Something that we didn't see before. A box. Or a trunk. I don't know if it was there before and we overlooked it, but it was in the same room that we found the perfume stuff."

Calvin paused, now appearing a bit green and unsure. Only Dean was pressed for time. "Spit it out man. What did you see?"

"Er…uh…I-it a-all happened so fast," he stuttered, "I don't even know what it was."

"Well what was it?"

Calvin glared at him some more. "I went into the room, smashed some of the dresser's contents…and that's when the box opened."

"Was this last Saturday night?" John asked.

"Yeah. The box opened…and…and then _it_ just came out. Big. Little. Dirty thing. Dirty man came out. It was really dark, and I had nothing else but meh flashlight. I couldn't get a good view of it. It came at me, and it threw me from each side of the room," he shuddered as the dark memory resurfaced. The feeling of weightlessness as he took flight and then the damaging blows from the harsh landings forever kept an imprint on his mind. The creature's wails, as though it shouted "freedom" rung like broken church bells.

Calvin shook his head. "It threw me again for the second time, until finally I hit the dresser again. I never had been more scared of anything in meh life. I started throwing things at it. Even one of my wife's precious perfume bottles she loved so much. It hit the wall and the thing stopped. It…ran to the place where it hit, and…started…to lick it. It made the weirdest sounds. Then finally it disappeared."

Dean jerked his head to the side, momentarily confounded. "What do you mean it disappeared?"

"What else does disappear mean? It _poofed_. Gone. Like David Copperfield jackass," Calvin retorted snidely, "It melted into smoke and went through the floor. After it was gone I wasn't taking meh chances. I got the fuck out of there."

Dean pursed his lips. "Hmm I bet. God you disgust me."

Calvin glared. "_Fuck you_. What would ew have done? Stay. Stupid prat like ew, I'm not surprised."

"No of course not," Dean gave a tender smirk. "But then I wouldn't expect anything else from the likes of you. You just gave it away old man."

"What are you talking about?"

"Everything. The monster. The murders. You knew what it went after. You knew what lured it to a particular spot. And I'm willing to bet you put it to your advantage. Here's what I think…" he backed away, hopping foot to foot in his excitement, "…that you knew what this thing was and what it would do. So you paid your ex-wife a little visit. And then the thing came for her that night and the guy she was bangin'—"

"Ewer wrong," Calvin interrupted.

"Oh really. I'm not so convinced," Dean carried on. "Then…then I think you got a little taste for it. Decided to sic this thing on whoever crossed you. Hymen, I'm sure he pissed you off somehow. Might be cuz he was taking over the town. The mailman, you never liked him coming to your house. Either that or somehow your wife's stuff got on him while he was mailing a specific perfume bottle to the social service lady, Gloria Retvern. Those two ringing any bells?"

"Shut up," Calvin spat. "That social worker had what was coming to her. Always! Always she would push her nose in our business, telling me this wasn't right. That wasn't right. Always threatening to call the cops. Ever since she found out about meh family history, she would never quit asking about some family gold. And I don't about ew, but I wouldn't mind having some family gold. Hadn't a clue what she would go on about. Annoying as Hell. So I'm glad she received my little gift. I ain't sorry about that…but ewer wrong about Maggie. I would never, never hurt my wife. Not like she hurt me."

"Yeah well she's dead now," Dean said unsympathetically.

"I know. And in pieces. Her head was found a good distance from the rest of her, I suppose."

"How'd you know her head was missing?" John asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"Who do you think found it?" Calvin shot him a mean sneer. "Why do you think I was out there that night, ew twat? Finding your ex's head in the chicken coop can do ew sum kind of crazy. That thing had to go. So I went out to kill it, and what do you know? I find some more trash on meh property."

The blunt comment went unheeded. The two Winchesters were far more interested in what else this man knew rather than his blatant insults.

"What else do you know?" John asked.

"Nothing else."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then who is this?" John pointed at the pictureframe suspended up beside Calvin's globular head. He caught the black and white picture of a man standing in farmer trousers in his peripheral vision as Dean ordered the man to start confessing. The stocky man with a grim smile in the photograph sparked a bout of recognition. "I'm only asking Calvin because I saw him yesterday. Right before he tore Gloria Retvern in half."

The defiant look Calvin tried hard to maintain no longer took the floor. Instead a pure look of horror marked his meaty face at John's statement. "No. Ewer wrong," he gasped.

"Mister. You should know something about me. Most of the time, I'm never wrong," John stated. "Now who is that?"

Calvin glanced at the wooden pictureframe twice before turning towards them. "It's my Great-Uncle Gilmore."

"Gilmore?" Dean repeated.

"That's what I said idiot. Get the wax outta ewer ears."

Dean glanced at his father. "Sam also told me there was some legend about a Gilmore," he faced Calvin again, "Does your Great-Uncle have a story that needs to be told?"

"No. Not really…uck—" John threw a punch across his cheek—"Alright! Fine. It's just some stupid story. Nothing more."

"Story's good enough for us. What's it about?"

"I don't know much. Yah can't find it in no history book. Some history codger, Lugnuts or Lutz something, came to us and said he found something in a diary that said so about this legend. That was the last time me or anyone had seen that man. And it described my Uncle to a tee, from what I hear," he slumped against the wall recollecting.

"My Uncle they say was a hungry egotistical maniac. He loved the nighttime parties. And he was especially fond of gambling and being a player of the town. And so the story goes he got into a little tiffy with a feeble woman called "Shasnihiya" or "Shenanigan" or something. And she put a curse on him. But it turns out the feeble old woman wasn't just sum thread and needle grandma. Legend has it she was a witch. So before I kicked the yammering bastard out of meh house before he scared meh kid, he said that my Uncle became a thing. Something that only lives in the dark and feasts on…what d'ya know? Us."

There was some truth to Calvin's story and it only made Dean more eager to find his little brother, but also intrigued him to learn more about what the man's Great-Uncle was. It would make sense that it wasn't a boogeyman at all like in the stories, but a man cursed. By a witch, no less? It was all starting to come together. Thinking back to the witch's haven he ventured through today, something occurred to him.

Dean turned back to his father. "Remember when you told me Willis had said he killed that witch sometime last week? How much you wanna bet that was the same witch? And all the protection symbols around the woods, inside that house, were keeping that thing in. The box he mentioned," he nodded at Calvin, "it was keeping it on lockdown, kinda like a Stephen King version of Jack-in-the-box. And when she died, I'll bet cha my bottom dollar the wards died with her, setting that thing loose."

"That does make sense," John agreed. "And the initials on the tree? If M.F was his wife, then no doubt the link on the fence around the forest was broken too…but I think just in that one spot. It can't get out of the woods any other way but by that tree. And based on the magic empowering that enclosure, once its out, it won't be able to stay out for very long. Much like an "invisible fence." Sooner or later the magic will pull itself back in. We have that at least on our side."

Dean nodded at the consensus. He turned his stern gaze once again back on Calvin. "What happened to Leann?"

"Puh! That stupid brat," Calvin whispered, "She went out without me knowing and she sprayed the stuff all over her before she went out. And that's her own stupid fault. Anyone she would've come into contact with, and knowing her, probably hug em', then would've had the scent on them. All well."

"Brian," Dean murmured; now coming to the understanding of how the kid bought it.

"Of course she didn't know what it was. I didn't know she put it on until she came home that night. And then it was too late. The thing was here. She reached into her closet to put her stuff away and it bit her on her arm. She's been sick ever since."

"And you tried to feed her to that thing. Finish the job?"

"Yeah. Try explaining that one to the horrible hospital people. Ew know as well as I do they wouldn't understand and take her. I couldn't have that," he glowered. "Why do you think I tried to keep that wretched kid of ewers to stay away from her? She was marked. If he had gotten killed, then I would never see the end of ew pesky cops. That was until he messed with it anyway—" he pointed at the jug back in the room—"and got it all over him. He dug his own grave at that point."

"You miserable bastard. I'm going to kill you. Why the hell did you keep the stuff if you knew what it was and what it could do? That was my son you put at risk!" John shoved the man forcefully against the wall again.

The sloppy bastard heaved, eying John with discontent. "Yeah, and who else isn't at risk? Who knows where my kid went to the other day? I wouldn't be surprised if there are more people out there dead."

"Yeah whatever," Dean shrugged his shoulders. "We got the scoop dad. Now we gotta find Sam before that thing does."

"Or if it already has," Calvin said glibly before shuddering back into the wall once he had two very pissed off looking Winchesters staring at him about to unleash Holy Hell.

* * *

Cold and musty was all Sam's brain could register. Feeling the chill, his body temperature receding back to a somewhat stable level, he inactively fluttered his eyes open. Darkness was all he saw. Opening his eyes more fully, fear became the active agent when all he saw was more darkness enveloping his body. It had to be a dream. No way would his father and brother subject him to this kind of treatment. And if so, why?

Another cough coursed through his sore chest. His head rolled with the movement, rolling on…what felt like a hard surface. Wood, maybe? After the short cough, he breathed, then choked on the air. He struggled to breathe again, sucking in more thick air and dust. The short cough returned with a vengeance, igniting another full-blown lung attack. His back rocked back and forth, his head rolling violently. The strain and the lack of air turned his face crimson. Globs of liquid filled his mouth, splattering out onto the dusty floor. Once the attack was over, he pried open his scrunched eyes and saw the liquid to be dark, presumably blood.

The fear tripled and he wanted his family. He shivered some more, scanning the darkness. Shortly after his eyes adjusted and could see, he learned he was in some room. Mostly empty, with boarded windows, a dresser, and a crooked door. Curling in his bare feet to provide some warmth, he looked down at his apparel and saw his sweatshirt to be gone. Dirt and dust-bunnies covered most of his side, causing him to sneeze. The sneeze itself felt like he had lost his nose and throat all in one go.

He flipped over onto his back. Tears, sprung from the coughing attack, leaked down the sides of his dirty face. The cold crept in, his body once more subjected to more shivers. His arms, his face, probably his whole body was clammy. He stomach never healed from the massive ache, much less from the puke-busting episodes. And he felt like shit. He wanted his Dad. He wanted his brother. But then why was he here? Who put him here? Last he checked he was safely snug in the backseat of the Impala, basking in a hotbox. So what was up with Uncle Buck's attic?

Sleep beckoned him again. He was too sore, too exhausted to ignore. That was until there was a creaking sound of a door opening. Lazily turning his head to the side, he saw the creaking belonged to a trapped door in the floorboard. The wooden platform remained hinged upright. No one came through. Then suddenly his nostrils were assaulted by the same stench he smelt in the motel. His eyes widened, and his body became paralyzed with fright.

Keeping an eye on the door, his teeth chattered when the dark silhouette of a clawed hand reached up. A second later a dark form slithered out onto the floor. He couldn't see its defining characteristics; only that it was stocky and had a head full of bushy hair. The creature slunk, sniffing the ground from side to side; as if it were a blind dog scenting for its meal, drawing closer.

Sam turned his head over on the other side, scrunching his eyes shut. _This is a dream. This is a dream. This has to be a dream_, he told himself in a litany.

The sound of the creature sniffing inched closer until it was directly overtop of him. He refused to make a sound, to move, to breathe, as he could feel the thing's icky nose slide over his chest. Strings of the monster's stinky saliva stuck to the fabric of his shirt. Sam would happily admit it: he was scared shitless.

It was obvious the fiend had realized it found its prize. It made a sound like 'ahh', lapping up the aroma before latching a spiky hand around Sam's midriff, dragging him away.

Sam freaked. Terror set off the reserve set of energy. The adrenaline pumped as he quickly spun over onto his stomach and began to crawl away. The monster hissed angrily snatching up his right leg, piercing its nails into the flesh. Sam cried out, moving his body faster. Without any strength to match, the creature pulled the boy towards him, back toward the trapdoor.

Fear had completely consumed him. "NOOOO! NO!" Sam screeched, grappling at the dusty floor, his fingers leaving tracks in the volumes of dust. "No! Dean! Dad!" his raspy throat screamed. Using his other leg, he kicked at the monsters face, coming into contact with what felt like a pudgy nose. The thing whined. He pulled faster away from it, only for the thing to reclaim his leg. "NO! DEAN!"

The crooked door banged open. White light flooded in. The creature howled in pain, releasing Sam's leg. A darkened figure stood in the doorway with a gun in hand. Sparks exploded. Canons blasted. Sam could feel the wind of the buckshot pellets whip over his head and body. The sounds of metal penetrating flesh echoed behind him. Turning his head back, he saw the shadow of the monster retreat back into the floor. A ways down through the floorboard, Sam could still hear its pained cries.

It was hard to suppress his cries of pain and horror. Gazing back at the figure still standing in the door, he reached out believing it was his family. Only his family would have come to his rescue. "Dean. Dean, please," he gasped tiredly.

But the shadowed man just stood there. Sam didn't understand. "Dean? Dad? Help," he coughed, the rest of his body succumbing to another fit. "P-please. H-h-help," he whispered into the floorboard, afterward hearing the person sigh.

"Sorry kid," he heard the figure say in a tough, young tone, along with the jiggle of a gun being holstered, "But that thing is not dead yet. I can only help once that thing is dead. I didn't want to have to do this, but it has to be done."

With that, the man hadn't said another word, instead closed the door, leaving Sam in complete darkness. That once debilitating fear grabbed a hold of Sam in a vice-like grip, threatening to suffocate him. Tears cascaded down his nose and chin in a torrent. Long was his bravado forgotten and the five-year old wanting the comfort and safety in his brother's arm emerged from its gloomy depths.

Unable to have both of those things, Sam panicked. "NO! No! Don't leave me alone," he cried, hoping to inspire sympathy, "DEAN! DAD! Please!" Burrowing his head into the wood, he cried out in a fever-dazed mantra, "Don't leave me alone. Please big brother come find me. Please Dad come for me. Please big brother come find me. God I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be alone."

Too sick and exhausted, Sam feebly dragged himself away from the hole, muttering his mantra over and over again like a busted radio-loop. "…Dean, come find me." Crawling into what felt like a corner, he laid curled, still muttering, frozen with fear…

…waiting for the boogeyman to return.

* * *

The two Winchester men held Mr. Calvin against the wall, furious over what the blubbering bastard informed them. This guy knew what was happening, plotted it. All the horrible murders and the fate he was prepared to bestow upon his daughter; he was no more different than the supernatural fiend they were facing. So why should his fate be any different? John scowled ready to deliver all the pain this guy deserved.

A shrill scream echoed from Leann's room. All three men froze; the dawning realization they left the girl in her room alone smashed into them like a boxer's punch.

Dean was the first in action. With his gun secured in his grasp, he charged through the opening. Leann was scrambling fretfully towards the headboard on her bed, crying and squealing. The closet door hung open, the black swirling smoke snaking out amongst the trash-littered floor. Dean aimed and let off several shots into the blackened hole. The door shut with a loud clatter, tearing off one hinge, just as John and Calvin ran in.

Then everything went quiet.

Leann whimpered some more curling her knees up to her chest. Dean lowered his gun and came forward, wrapping an arm around her trembling shoulders, issuing out calming reassurances. John and Calvin exchanged glances.

Growls suddenly echoed from beyond the drywall. Scratches skittered all along almost in an alluring way. The men followed the scratches up in the ceiling to down in the surrounding walls. The thing was on the move. John stood still, attempting to calculate what his enemy planned to do next. So far what he figured from this thing, it was intelligent. One false move and the game's over.

The scratches continued to move, seemingly heading towards the outside, over the doorway entrance. An enlightening beam glowed in Calvin's black eyes. He was racing out the door before John had the chance to spur into action, moving fast for a pot-bellied old man. John shot after him, following him down the hallway calling out for him to _stop._

The greasy man ignored him running into a room on the opposite side.

"Dad!" Dean yelled, releasing his grip on the girl and sprinting off after his father, leaving the gun on the bedspread.

"STOP. Don't go in there," John bellowed running into a bedroom. He skidded to his feet when Calvin pulled down an attic ladder. "Are you _fucking_ insane? Don't go up there!"

"You think you can take it down by that little peashooter your kid has?" Calvin reproached.

"Dad!" Dean ran in, accidentally bumping into his old man. He looked up to see the miserable porkster climb the stairs. "Damn Mister. What the hell do you think you're doing? Don't go up there."

John stepped back from the ladder. He knew not to take his chances, especially not with his kid behind him. He grabbed a part of Dean's jacket and pushed him back. "Calvin! No! GET DOWN!"

The guy reached the entrance to the dark attic. He turned his hateful eyes on the two. "I have my shotgun. I left it up here the other day. I gotta get it. Or we won't have a Dickens' chance."

"No. It could be up there. Get down NOW!"

Calvin gritted his teeth, retrieving out a silver lighter.

"NO DON'T," the teenager yelled at him.

Calvin sneered one last time. Flicking the lighter on, he turned…and there it was. Face to face with the monster, he stared at a large square toad-like face, flaming cat-like pupils, brown-smudged leathery skin, and greasy tousled hair. The deformed version of his ancestor opened its mastodon jaw revealing a row of serrated sharp teeth. The miserable old coot screamed for the last time.

John and Dean gasped at hearing the screams. The man's body was lifted off the stairs, his feet dangling and jerking. Dark sticky contents splattered down, showering the two Winchesters. Wiping the blood and guts off their brows, John and Dean leapt back when the leftovers of Calvin's body dropped to the floor. His face was torn completely off.

"Back. Back!" John ordered pushing his son out the door as he witnessed the foggy smoke descend the stairs. He slammed the door shut just as the splashy thuds of the monster's feet were heard. It rammed into the wooden structure. John slid back from the impact. He jumped forward once the doorknob began to wiggle and pulled on it, gripping it hard, struggling against the opposing force. Dean ran up and pulled on the doorknob as well.

The door _boomed_, vibrating harshly as the creature hammered its fist against it.

The door threatened to burst in shambles. Desperate, John cried, "Get the gun! Dean, get the gun, now!"

Understanding what his father meant, Dean obeyed taking off towards Leann's room. The only functional gun they had at this point was his Nine Millimeter. And he left it on the girl's bed.

Racing back into the small room, the first thing he noticed it was eerily quiet; the second, it was amazingly dark. Leann still sat on the bed with her knees curled into her chest, but she was no longer shaking. Nor was she whimpering. The lamp fixture usually residing on her nightstand was now on the floor in pieces.

"Leann?" he called softly.

She didn't answer.

He scanned the bed, looking for his gun. It wasn't where he had left it. He needed to find it quick. The monster's growls and tiger-like squeals, along with his father's desperate pleas echoed loudly all throughout the hallway. Rapidly he began to pat at the bunched up bed-comforter.

"Leann. I need my gun. Have you seen my gun?" he said to her searching all around.

"DEAN!" his father cried.

His search turned to frantic. Leann still had not said anything. Her eyes were closed and her face was scrunched into a frown. The raw swelling around the bite site on her wrist decreased; the bite itself nearly healed. Something was wrong with her. "Come on girl. I know you're scared. I am too. But we gotta get out of here."

His gun was nowhere to be seen amongst the covers. So in that case, the only option left was to run like Hell. But he couldn't leave Sam's best friend. "Come on. We gotta go. Leann?" he sat on the bed and shook her shoulders.

Leann's eyes slid open. Dean let go, slowly backing away in terror. The girl's once bright dark irises, like her fathers, were now flaming orange. Massive globs of drool pooled out down the side of her mouth as she opened her jaw flashing vampyric canines.

Dean gasped. "Oh shit."

Leann, or what used to be Leann, screeched blaringly like a banshee. Producing a snarl, she shoved him away with Herculaneum strength and he sailed off the bed and into the closet door. He crumbled to the floor uncertain to what just transpired.

The girl climbed to her hands and knees letting out grunts and hisses, swiveling her head side to side. Dean glanced up and saw her body rippling with change. The muscles in her neck undulated like oceanic waves, the hair along her arms, legs and parts of her shoulders thickened, lengthening as if they were doused in Miracle Grow. Letting out another deafening caterwaul, the girl leapt off her perch with her arms and legs sprawled out.

Dean rolled just in time. Leann landed on her feet, flexing out her newly extended inch long fingernails. She looked his way, snarling again. Dean read the glint in her eyes. No longer was she Leann, the sweet and innocent fifteen-year-old everyone knew. Only now was a thing, a supernatural entity with only one thing on its mind. And that's what he saw: hunger. It only made sense that he was the delicious item on the menu.

Before he had time to react, she was on him, lifting him up by the bulk of his hair. Using the jagged claws, she scratched with one hand at his midriff. Luckily his Dad's leather jacket took most of the brunt. One thing that took him by surprise was the strength the girl now had. Rising to one knee, Dean yanked at her hands, trying to pull them away. Leann quickly disarmed that attempt by grabbing his arms and pulling them down to his sides. She head rammed him bringing about a round of haze. Then her head bent forward at his throat, her jaw slacked open ready to take a big bite.

In the next second, the monster-child was pulled away. He glimpsed and saw it was his Dad, yanking the girl off of him heroically.

_That didn't last._

Leann hissed and pushed against him with her clawed hands. John fell like a beached whale, sliding along the cedar flooring. He too had no time to react as the girl pounced on him, landing on his chest with her knees. She hissed and mewled, splashing him with globs of drool. John counteracted by latching onto her swinging hands, keeping them from using him as a scratch post.

Having caught his breath, Dean ran up and pried the girl off by wrapping his arms underneath her armpits. She struggled and squirmed, screeching.

John glanced to the right and saw the handgun lying not two feet from him beneath the bed.

Leann continued to scramble, protesting Dean's hold on her. Suddenly Dean cried out when she balled up a fist and swung it down into his groin. He involuntarily released her, backing a step as his 'two best friends' felt like they were hit by a semi and then ran over by a steamroller. It wasn't pleasant! The monster whirled around, leaping up in the air at him.

A gunshot sounded and Leann's body sidetracked, hitting the wall instead. Scrambling to her feet, she saw where the shot came from. John held the gun poised, still lying on the ground on his back. Blood oozed out from a hole in her shoulder. Glaring furiously, she ran and jumped, aiming for the final kill.

John squeezed the trigger a second time. The monster made one last shriek before her body went rigid and still in mid-air. She crashed to the ground hard beside him, a small trickle of crimson liquid flowed from the hole on the side of her forehead. The light of life having left from her orange eyes.

Dean made a huff mixed between relief and despair. Leann changing into a monster only meant one thing. "D-Dad," he gasped, holding a hand to his crotch, "We gotta go."

John nodded, jumping to his feet. Taking Dean by the shoulder with one hand, keeping the gun tightly within his grasp in the other, he led his son out. Together they ran, not stopping until they were down the creaky steps and out the foyer. Their speed increased once they reached the dewy outside, racing to the car.

Dean hunched over, catching his breath after keeping up with John's Olympian speed-runner pace, held onto the Impala's door-handle. He looked at his Dad desperately. "Dad, she turned. She turned."

Avoiding Dean's gaze, John took a deep breath before answering. "I know."

"And you saw she was bitten right?"

"I saw," he answered hoarsely, already understanding what his son was implying. He figured it out too.

The look of horror seemed to be permanently etched on Dean's face. "Dad, Sam was bitten too!"

John huffed, opening the driver-side door. "I know!"

"Then what are we going to do?" Dean shrieked.

Hearing the panic laced in his eldest tone, John looked him squarely in the eyes. There wasn't any time to panic. "Dean, don't think about that," he said with his commander-like edge, stopping Dean's fretfulness in that second, "I don't know what we're going to do. But the problem is we have to find Sam now. That thing got away. And that means _he's next_."


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: **

**Where's Waldo?**

It wasn't just the fever, or the fear, or the occasional pain that kept him defenseless. It was the wait. The cold crept in fast, setting off the shivers like a person strung on too much caffeine, increasing in length and severity the longer he remained on the dirty floor. Sam swore they would never end, as if they were part of him now. Wounding his arms closer, tighter to his chest did nothing. His teeth chattered and he curled into a tighter ball. And still the cold was an ominous fiend, fiddling with its victim before claiming him.

Hot springs, hot cocoa, and a week's supply of thermal blankets were comforting thoughts. The longing for those three things made him smile.

_Just a little longer_, he told himself.

Just a little longer and then his Dad and his brother would burst through the door, like the heroes he knew them as. He didn't care if the irony of it made it seem like they were the knights on horses coming to rescue a damsel. As long as they got him out of this crapper, he didn't give a flying flip. He didn't care if his brother happened to make a point of it and razzed him about it for the rest of his miserable life. As long as he got his cocoa. He just had to stay alive long enough. And to do that, he surmised—especially in his condition—he had to stay quiet and continue to wait. They would come.

They always came.

Sam kept his eyes on the opened trapped door. The fiend had been gone for a while. But for how long? It was impossible to tell time in the dark. Submersed in the darkness for so long, like a murky lake, his eyes had become accustomed. He could see everything. Everything from the rusted chains securing the door up, to the minute light peeking through the windowsill, to the patches of dust-swirls he created as he crawled. It was very eerie. And it reminded him of being nine-years-old again, scared of the dark, having believed there was something roaming around in his closet. Today, he wouldn't have been too far off. Only now, he didn't have his father to give him a .45.

He half-wished he could impersonate his brother. Act tough and rebellious, even in the eye of the enemy. Bellicose and fierce, throwing out any smart-ass reply he could. Though right now, the best retort he'd probably come up with was coughing at his enemy. He rolled his eyes. This was just his luck!

Then like a bell ringing, a part of him told him that his family was close by. A cascading feeling of warmth then suddenly followed the ringing. Yes, it had to be his family. Most of the time all he associated with his brother and father were mutual feelings of rage and resentment, but in other times there was a sort of comforting sensual warmth, like he was coming across a tropical paradise after spending months in a frozen tundra. His chattering teeth stretched into a thin smile. They had to be close. Any minute now they would burst through that door and rescue him.

The walls behind him rattled. Heavy footsteps pounded on the wooden floors outside the room. His smile widened. _They were here._

In the next second, the door burst opened widely, the light pouring in. In entered a shadowed man, closing the door behind him. Sam scrambled onto his elbows, ready to leave. He closed his eyes in relief when the shadow turned his way, though it struck him as odd that he hadn't heard two pairs of footsteps.

And that's when it finally dawned on his currently slower-than-average mind. It wasn't his family, it was…

_Too late._

White-hot pain yielded to a fiery wrath as he felt his arm nearly snatched out of its socket. The figure, his kidnapper, more than likely, yanked him up into a standing position, where his legs lost their strength and went under. He fell to the side, sagging in the man's grip. The calloused hand was excruciating on his arm, like it was trying to pry the meat from the bone, and so he cried out.

"Shut up," came the man's harsh demand.

Sam bit his lip, stifling whatever noise that was about to erupt forth. The man then began to drag him away from the corner and towards the opened trapdoor. Sam, too weak to fight feebly cried fisting the man's shirt, pleading with him to leave him alone.

Willis fought hard with his inner self. This was not morally right, but he didn't get into this occupation based on morals. "Come on," he snarled dragging the limp teenager, "That thing needs to come before sun-up. There isn't any time. Get on over here."

Hearing that the man wanted the thing to come, finally realizing that he was being used as bait, Sam froze stock-still. He couldn't move. Jerking his arm, he tried to fight. Willis didn't like that, not one bit. He swung his fist across the boy's face. Sam let out a pained cry, clutching his cheek with his right hand.

"You stupid brat! I don't have time for any shit," Willis bellowed dropping the teenager to the floor near the smelly aperture. Still riddled with fright, Sam tried to crawl away. That was until the man gave him a swift kick to his abdomen. The heavy hit took his breath away yielding to wide pained gasp. Sharp shooting pains pinched and stabbed and all he could do was roll over, and moan in misery. It was then he prayed for his family to come save him.

Where were they? Or more importantly, why were they allowing this to happen to him?

Willis panted deeply like a man overcoming a bout of rage. He knew he shouldn't have kicked the kid, but there was no time. It was coming down to the draw here. Either the sun was going to come up and he'd have to wait another day or the other Winchesters were about to locate him.

The point being, he was out of time on both fronts. Latching onto the kid's arm again, he screamed, "Good! I hope it hurt. Now yell. Cry. Do something. Get that thing here. We need it here now! _Now!_" The psycho was coming out and he yanked on the kid's appendage several more times, each resulting in a shriek of pain.

* * *

Though there was no sign of Willis on the outside, John still went in the century-old house prepared. He knew the idiot mongrel had to be lurking about somewhere. The guy was like a chameleon, could blend in anywhere…so he and Dean had to be careful.

After careful consideration about who or what could've taken his boy, John's memory lapsed to the time he remembered seeing a white truck. And it only made his blood boil. Reason only dictated that the hunter was the cause for his son's disappearance. If Willis was the one who took his son, there was only one reason why he would use Sam: as bait. So he wasn't going to be easily persuaded to let him off the hook. John's fist would see to it he would.

Having only searched the run-down house once, the scene was easy to enter during daylight. But during dawn was little more difficult. The house was eerily quiet. Dried leaves crackled and crunched beneath their soles, breaking the silence. They looked from side to side observing the empty livingroom, the creaky stairs to the right. John surveyed the ground and observed long ruts made in the dust. It appeared as though something was dragged, the marks leading up the stairwell.

Dean too saw the marks and hurried forward, a little too eager to find his baby brother. But John reeled him back by the scruff of his jacket, giving him the stern look of 'what-do-you-think-you're-doing?' Dean silently apologized, allowing his father to take lead. They had only one chance in this, and he wasn't about to blow it.

Climbing the stairs proved to be a Herculaneum labor. They creaked and croaked with each step, the wooden planks bowing deeper under the combined weight. Dean clenched his teeth, gripping the dirty banister railing, slowly trying to pull off the _Mission Impossible._ John was right there alongside him, sloth-like, creeping up the stairs—shushing at his son the whole way, and rolling his eyes when his son cast him a sardonic glare at every shush.

The silent bitch-fest was suddenly put on hold when a commotion and the sounds of cries echoed from above. Dean recognized those cries instantly. Without another thought, he bounded up the stairs, regardless if his move now alerted the enemy of their presence. John followed suit and both barreled into a termite-infested door, revealing the bastard hunter Willis yelling, gripping and tugging on an arm. _Sammy's arm._

It was in that moment that both Winchester's thermostats busted and both ran in charging, emitting out war cries of death.

John was the first to reach Willis, and he tackled him off his feet and through the behind wall, falling into a cloud of dust and splintered wood. With what would be described as the Devil's madness, John threw his balled fists out connecting them with Willis's head. He wanted to cause the man just as much pain as he had caused him. Once the young man appeared dazed, John shouted back, "Dean, get him out of here. Now!" And he went back to pummeling the guy into a bloody pulp.

Dean didn't need to be ordered. While his father was busy playing Terminator and charging through the wall, he immediately went to Sam, lying stretched out on the floor. Rubbing the side of Sam's face, he was filled with relief when the kid panted his name out, probably in relief too. "D-D-Dean," Sam gasped, eying him with disbelief.

Dean smiled at him gently slapping his cheek, letting him know it was truly him and not a mirage. "Yeah, it's me. It's okay Sammy. I'm here. I'm here. And we, _little brother_, are getting out of here," he said looping an arm around the dirty midriff. The sounds of bone-cracking hits echoed in the background as Dean heaved his weak brother to his feet. For better support, Dean pulled Sam's left arm around his shoulder and carried on. "Come on Sammy. We can do this. Come on."

Sam sagged and leaned, too weak to remain upright, his legs a stumbling mess. Dean mainly had to half-carry him out of the room. Though slow, the movement was dizzying, forcing Sam's stomach to churn. Panic set in and he scrambled out of Dean's grasp. Falling onto his knees, his body bucked at the movement, as more bile shot from his mouth. It wasn't much, but just enough to completely drain the rest of his reserves. Groaning, he fell over onto his side.

"Sam!" Dean cried when his brother fell onto his palms. He fell too, kneeling, patting his back when Sam was inclined yet again to puking. Angry yells and sounds of breaking furniture echoed in the background, signifying that his Dad was now in a brawling match. "Nononono Sam, come on," Dean called out desperately when Sam lied on his side. "No we gotta get out of here," he fumbled picking up the limp torso.

_**Crash!**_

In a big cloud of dust and debris, two dust-covered figures came out. His father, lifting Willis up by the scruff of his shirt, rammed him through a door down the hall. Dean watched his father and Willis battle a fistfight from Hell. "Dad!" he called out in concern. John didn't answer. He was too absorbed in his own fight. To him, nothing else mattered. And by the looks of it, Willis was in for one rough beating…but it appeared too that the man held his own.

The fists flew. The legs swung. It wasn't too far off like a cartoon animation with the ball of smoke, the limbs flailing, and the 'Pow' and 'Ouch' thrown in the mix. His Dad was like a caged lion; and Willis a caged tiger. A very own WWE match right here in Monster House, USA. _Where's the popcorn?_

The wrestling match came to an end when the floor claimed retirement. The rocking and the rolling became too much for the aged flooring and the two men fell right through. A heart attack seemed mild to what Dean felt in that moment. "DAD!" he screamed, "No. No."

Worry over what had become of his father gave Dean the strength to pick up his brother. Breathing deeply, he took the steps one at a time, praying to whoever was listening that the stairs wouldn't have been next in line for retirement. Finally reaching the base, thanking whoever did tune into his prayers, he moved toward the back, peering down the short hallway leading towards the century-old kitchen, hoping to find his Dad there.

He found him all right.

John, he saw from a distance, shot past the doorway, spitting and snarling. His face was a bloody mess, along with a giant bloodstain blossoming on the side of his shirt. But the man charged on intent on delivering a message. "Dad!" he called out.

John still hadn't acknowledged his call. Next were the sounds of grunting and punching, and then scraping and banging…as if someone was searching through the cabinets. Dean stood bewildered as Sam sagged to the side. Soon Willis appeared by the doorway with a wooden spoon in hand. He threw his hand back, aiming to use it…until Dean saw his Dad sail through the air, plowing into the man. More rummaging and rustling was heard, followed by the sound of glass shattering. The house became quiet again. To which Dean surmised both John and Willis had crashed through a window.

"DAD!" Dean called again. Whirling around, dead-set on getting to their dad, he set off at a trot, half-lifting and dragging his brother alongside. He had just reached the end of the hallway when Sam's legs buckled. "No. No, Sammy. Get up," he ordered, adjusting his hands around Sam's waist. "Come on, we gotta get out of here. Come on! Move it!"

Sam nodded, also taking a deep breath, sensing the door—the exit—to be close. Sweat trickled off his face, the effort strenuous. The glow from the rising sun shone through the opening. Then suddenly his insides writhed. His muscles twitched. And another migraine was added. Feeling the warmth of the celestial body hadn't felt pleasant, as he had hoped. Instead it made him paranoid, wanting to hide in a cool penumbra. And that worried him. But with Dean tugging on his side, his worry was forgotten. They were nearly out of the house, which was all that mattered.

Big blowflies suddenly paraded around them, zooming in as if they were an all-you-can-eat-buffet. Dean swatted at them with his free hand. Then the smell of rotten flesh wafted through his nose and he froze. The flies and the smell only meant one thing. Snaking an eye behind his shoulder, he saw _it_…the boogeyman. The husky thing stood at the base of the stairs, with its neck cocked at an angle, its cat-like eyes wide and bright. But the scariest thing was, it was grinning.

Dean's eyes widened with panic. "MOVE! Sammy move! Go now! Faster," he yelled leaping forward.

Sam too picked up on the signs and hugged Dean's midriff tighter, using whatever energy he had to lift his feet. It hadn't taken them long, but they finally reached the outside. Dean sighed with relief at the bright orange circle peeking over the pine trees. It was the best thing he had seen in a while.

His victory was short-lived.

A bluish hand snaked out fast from behind the door, latching onto Dean's shoulder. Before he had time to comprehend, he was catapulted backwards, back into the darkness. The door slammed shut with a loud bang.

Sam fell with a loud thud onto the veranda. The brightness of the sun hurt him, feeling incredibly hot on his skin. But it was nothing compared to the fear he felt for his brother.

"NO! DEAN!" he screamed, reaching a hand at the door.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: **

**It's the Oogey Boogey Man**

The far opposite wall came hurtling at him far too fast to his liking. Dean closed his eyes, preparing for the impact.

_**Boom! **_

The walls and ceilings all vibrated at the hit. Falling to the floor, Dean shook his head, momentarily dazed. Before he had time to shake it off, loud splashy thuds was heard and next a pair of grotesque hobbit-like feet appeared at his side. He glanced up, catching the bastard's robust shoulders and horribly deformed face and cat-eyes only briefly before he was thrown again into the other wall near the staircase.

His cry of pain only lasted a second. The monster shuffled with inconceivable speed, issuing out hisses and grunts with a look of sheer rage. It reminded Dean of a very pissed off, pot-bellied Troll. _Now if he had a rhinestone in his bellybutton, he'd be complete._ He had no time to consider his next option when the fiend picked him up by the collar of his shirt and threw him yet again. _Jeez, did this monster have any creativity?_

He thought too soon.

His body did a sort of somersault with his back slamming into the fireplace, careening into the mantle. A strangled cry escaped past his lips. A fiery sensation erupted in his lower back as he fell to the floor, landing on his head. Blood quickly pooled in his mouth and he spat it out.

Nodding he gasped, "Yep, that's gonna bruise."

The shock of the hit left, bringing back full awareness. The sharp-shooting pain pulsed and throbbed. He groaned rolling over onto his side. Then the sparkly troll growled in a weird way, as if it were singing a tribute to the Blue's Brothers. Dean glanced at it peculiarly. And once again the thing bore down on top of him. Grabbing his foot, it swung him across the empty floor. Still attached to his leg, it tossed him up and yanked him down. Kinda like it was flapping out a rug.

What was this thing doing? Dean was half expecting his leg to be torn off by now.

At last after the third or fourth meat-tenderizing slam (he lost count), the monster released him, snarling. Dean coughed out of pain, squeezing his eyes shut as more red gushingly oozed past his lips. Shock coursed through his system as the stinging effects of the hits began to materialize and he could not move.

He had no unearthly idea what the thing was doing, only that it was standing overtop of him—probably licking its chops. He coughed again, groaning. Oh yeah, he was definitely going to feel that in the morning…that is if he got out of this alive. He knew where his brother was, but just where in the _Hell_ was his father?

But one good thing about being used as a rag doll was that he kept falling on top of his Nine Millimeter secured in his jeans, reminding him that it was there. That's primarily what hurt like a bitch. Other than a pocketknife he kept in his boot, he realized he had nothing else of value.

The stocky troll hissed and spat, his hands shaking out of fury, or excitement—it was hard to tell. Its orange cat-like orbs gleamed hungrily at its prey. Cawing loudly, it jumped up, landing on its knees directly over top of Dean. In a spitting rage, it slashed and swiped at its victim, tearing into his chest, slicing his shoulders, scratching his face and throat. The gooey substance of blood flew and clung to it's grossly attire, and over the floorboards.

Dean swung his fists, in a panic, trying to block the enemy's claws. The fiend overpowered him, knocking his limbs out of its way, scratching him all to pieces. Giving up trying to knock away the claws, he resorted to raising his arms up over his face and throat. Pure white-hot agony dispersed everywhere all over his torso. He cried out long and loud, still using his arms as a shield.

The fiend snarled in triumph.

* * *

"Dean! Dean!" Sam's voice began to recede to a dull whisper, his throat raw. His brother had not answered. The fiend's snarls and grunts echoed loudly from inside. With hardly any energy to spare, he slowly laid down on the porch, now starting to softly call his Dad's name. Perhaps John could save Dean. _Where was he anyway?_

A certain burning tingle sparked at the bottom of his feet, flowing, steadily spreading throughout to his extremities. At first it felt nice, like a gentle sensation, but then morphed into needle-like pinpricks. It scared him what was happening, to point of immobility. Only until he heard Dean cry out in pain, did he slide across the porch, aspiring to come to his brother's aid. Until the movement caused a searing spike to shoot through his chest, stopping him cold.

His breath came out in great gasps, as the fortitude of despair for his brother took precedence. The tingling flourished. He gaped at the rising sun, which was starting to blister his skin. He continued to stare, wide-eyed.

And then it was sudden. It hit him like a brick. He felt renewed as if a newfound strength poured into him. The nausea was gone. The tremors abated. And a pulsating hunger sprung. A certain heaviness invaded his eyes, like newly acquired cataracts. It was weird to say in the least…he felt whole.

He hadn't known that his once beautiful green eyes had turned to a flaming orange.

* * *

The monster gave up gnarling at the human. Instead as it saw the boy grimacing in pain, the insurmountable fear emanating off him fueled its desire to rip him to pieces and feast off his flesh. Shaking its head from side to side like a dog shaking off a collar, it grasped the human's head yanking it upward as it lowered its head to take a big bite.

Desperate, Dean pushed his hands into the crook of the thing's neck. It was mighty; so much he wasn't sure if he could keep its jaws away from his (not-at-the-moment) delicate skin. His head was suddenly twisted to the side, not enough to fracture the spinal cord, but enough to where he swore he'd be walking in circles from now on. His fear multiplied when the monster grunted as though laughing at him.

The laughing stall suddenly gave him an idea. Reaching down to his boot, he fumbled at the knife's polished handle. Finally grasping it, he swung it up, piercing the fiend's neck. Great Ole Uncle Gilmore squealed, relinquishing his grip and sat up. Dean's jaw fell agape as the monster one-by-one curled its long fingers around the hilt and slowly pulled the blade, shining with black liquid, out. Instantly Dean knew his time was over. That was his last chance of gaining one over this now seemingly invincible foe.

The monster threw away the little pig-sticker. Its dark liquid spurted and flowed from the wound, but it seemed to not care. Opening its wide and nauseating mouth, it bent down fast for the kill. Dean screamed, closing his eyes.

The tearing painful torment had not come. The weight sitting on top of him disappeared.

The monster was quickly pulled off. Now up on its feet, the thing whirled around and came face-to-face with…

Dean paled with dread.

It was Sam.

No longer pale, sweaty, and in pain, the boy now stood valiantly, facing his enemy, glowering with an aggressive ferocity. His orange eyes glowed, his fingernails were long and jagged, and his build was bulky. But what scared Dean the most were the teeth. Long and masticating canines protruded, but had not the serrated edge characterized by the other guy. He was similar to Leann.

The monster growled.

Sam growled back.

Sneering in rage, Sam shoved the fiend, sending it flying across the room. It landed next to the rotten window, sprawling to the creaky floor. Sam shot his brother a saddened look before stalking forward. Dean, still stunned and sore over the beat-down he received, stared, shifting a little to remove his gun.

The monster nearly pushed itself to its feet. Sam moved unremarkably fast lifting its hairy head by its Dumbo-sized ears. Securing his feet, Sam swung repeatedly sending it sailing through the air. He was at his opponent's side before it hit the ground, punching at its grisly face. The monster cawed painfully. Then the teenager struck at it, much like the way he fought against that Derk kid in one of his old high schools.

With a newly acquired strength and agility, Sam kicked, punched, scratched, sliced; wreaking revenge. For all the pain it put him through, the miserable sickness, and not to mention the heart-rending scare of pulling him under the bed. Sam put every ounce of emotion he had into each hit, further damaging the things' facial. For all the murders, all the anguish and torture it put Leann through, even for all the chickens… It was clear that only one would walk away from this fight…and Sam was putting in everything he had.

Hearing the hammering hits echoing all around, Dean rolled over and watched. His stomach did a sort of flip at seeing his brother deliver his infamous undercut to the jaw, knocking the monster off his feet. Sam then began to dodge, claw, and move gracefully as though he were a professional stunt martial artist. Though frightened to the dickens, a deep sense of pride swelled within Dean at witnessing his blood and family take on being the hero…basically saving his life.

His pride suddenly switched to concern when after Sam delivered another roundhouse punch, the fiend pounced on him, taking him to the floor. He fell issuing a loud Sammy-like grunt, signifying that he hadn't fully turned into something that did nothing but hisses and growls. Sam used his feet to push it over his head. The stinky troll rolled off, making a fast pirouette and wrapping its bulky arms around Sam's neck and throat, squeezing hard. Sam gasped and choked, pinching and clawing at the arms. The thing squeezed tighter.

Dean began to scramble to his knees, intent on coming to his brother's aide.

Sam squeaked, scrunching his eyes. Remembering a tactic his father, unfortunately, showed him, he pulled hard at the bluish skin, using his newly grown nails to peel the flesh off the bone. The creature hollered in pain, but refused to relent its hold. Inching his neck up enough, Sam pulled in a greedy breath, then clung onto the creature's appendages, curling his feet upward. The hit was short and sweet. The creature barreled backwards, releasing him after the two-legged kick to the face.

Sam didn't take any chances. Jumping up, gritting his teeth, Sam lifted his leg and kicked the creature's chest forcing it to stumble in front of the partly hinged door. Snarling in pain and anger, the thing clutched at its chest, ready to retaliate.

"Hey!" a stern voice called out.

Its attention turned to Dean, standing with his gun poised and aimed at the monster's mouth.

"Bite on this," the elder Winchester said, squeezing the trigger.

The gunshot reverberated loudly, biting at their eardrums. The fiend's head rocked back as the bullet entered its mouth, shattering its front two incisors. The force caused it to stumble back, but it righted itself though partially dazed.

Together Sam and Dean came forward and simultaneously kicked the monster in its chest, the combined momentum causing it to crash through the door. The sun's radiating light poured in. Sam shrieked in pain covering his face, swiftly falling back into the shadows.

The monster rolled off the veranda, and into the dead grass. It stood up, swaying from side to side still in a daze.

The process was slow at first. Wisps of smoke began to undulate off its skin and head. Its clothes grew hot, emitting off steam. As the monster turned all the way around, glimpsing the bright red sun, its eyes burned out of its skull within seconds, the rest of its body going up in flames. It roared loud and painfully, slumping to its knees in the decaying grass.

In under a minute, the magnificent sun finished the boogeyman off, its scorched corpse disintegrating into dust.

* * *

As John charged at him, Willis momentarily stood still, his mind unable to make a decision about which direction to take to evade the oncoming T-Rex, unfortunately producing a stalemate. The spoon in his hand hardly any effect as the beast flew at him much like Scar flew in the air at Simba in the _Lion King_.

_Big Dude coming through…clear a path people!_

The force of the hit took his breath away, causing him to loose his balance and both ended up out the window, crashing to the ground in splintered wood and glass.

Obviously the crash came as a surprise to John, because the two belligerent men remained on the ground quiet and non-moving. Panting harshly, John wiped the trail of blood coursing down his arm off his jeans. Though injured, John's fury knew no bounds. He took one look at Willis and grinned in delight at the trauma he enforced. The man was surely a bloody mess. Stumbling to his feet, he prepared for more punishment.

Willis shook his head to rid of the wave of dizziness, rolling off the enclave of shattered glass. Catching John's murderous expression, he scrambled clumsily to his feet, taking off at a sprint towards the woods.

Typically he was the champion at Track Sprint Races…Not Today!

Suffering from several bruises, scrapes, and probable internal bleeding, his pace slowed down to four times his usual speed. John raced after him.

_Jesus, this guy was like a freaking rhino!_

The Rhino gained on him within a few yards into the timberland, tackling him off his feet. "Offph" Willis cried out rolling amongst the dewy detritus. Rolling to one side, he struck out at the man's face-miraculously knocking him off his abdomen. Still a bit hazed over the fight, the crash through the window, and the great tackle from behind, Willis stumbled to his feet, blinking owlishly.

John too rose to his feet, wiping his mouth. He huffed. "God Dammit. Why can't you stay down?"

Willis briefly smiled. "Well, I wasn't the Rugby captain in college for nothing."

At that smart-ass reply, John scowled. He cricked his neck from side to side, flexing his fingers out, curling them back into rough fists. The threatening gestures were making the other hunter extremely uncomfortable. He wasn't sure at first, but now he was for sure John was out for blood.

Flattening out his hands, Willis placated. "Okay. Okay. Truce. Truce," he said shifting nervously from foot to foot, spitting out a loosened chunk of tooth. "We're fighting the same thing here, right? So for right now, why don't we put aside our differences and get rid of it? You've proved your point!"

A bright flash flared in John's eyes. "You kidnapped my son!" he accused, "To use him as bait. You could've killed him!"

Willis tensed. "Okay. That was a mistake. I admit that. It is unforgivable. But I had to do what I had to do. That thing was killing people and it wanted your son. If it had been anybody else, don't tell me as a hunter you wouldn't have used that as an opportunity?"

John stepped forward threateningly.

"Okay, maybe you won't!" Willis reneged.

"I told you No!" John spat, "I told you I work alone for a reason and now you see why. And no, I wouldn't have used anyone who didn't agree to it as bait. That's not what a hunter is supposed to do. No innocent deserves to be a part of this, e_specially not a sixteen-year-old kid!_"

He hated that he contradicted himself in saying his own child shouldn't be hurled into this supernatural world, let alone being used as bait, but he did believe had it been any other child, he would have said no in a heartbeat, choosing to find another solution. Untold fury boiled inside at remembering Sam's cry of pain and he wanted to teach this guy another lesson. Willis obviously picked up on his body language and prepared for yet another fight.

That was until a gunshot echoed.

John froze. Gazing back at the house, now several yards away, his heart jumped up his throat. How could he have left his sons inside the house with the thing possibly roaming around? Turning back to Willis, he asserted, "We'll settle this later," and took off at a dead sprint.

Willis didn't hesitate. He took off after John, against his better judgment suggesting he high-tail it out of dodge. But his curiosity was at its peak. He caught up to John's long-stride and both ran around the side of the house in time to see the creature, the monstrous stocky sort of man, become engulfed in flames and turn into a crisp. Relief befell both men at the sight. They exchanged mortified glances, puzzled to the gill.

Hearing whimpering coming from inside the house, John ran in. Noticing the broken door pieces, a discarded gun lying on the floor, and the swirling patterns created into the dust, it came as a shock he didn't see his sons at first.

Following the whimpers, John and Willis's heads turned to the corner far off across the room.

The first thing they saw was Dean on his knees resembling a Muslim praying to Allah, with his hands splayed out issuing out 'shhh'. He was trying to console somebody. They stepped closer and saw a figure, curled into a ball, with his back against the wall, huddled into the corner, rocking back and forth.

John recognized the mop of hair. But something was wrong. He could sense it. Something was wrong with Sam. Moving further around Dean so that Sam was within eyeshot, he paused in shock.

The father inside screamed in horror. But his vocal cords remained silent.

_Oh My God, my baby boy!_


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: **

**What Do We Do Now?**

John stood paralyzed, stunned, completely consumed in uncertainty of what to do. He stared on at the thing curled in the corner that was now his baby boy. Sam's hands and feet were deformed, wrinkled, and supporting Dracula nails; his once lanky frame slowly bulging as though the muscles fought to escape past their epidermal prison; and his eyes…John's breath hitched at seeing his irises. Anytime Sam would glance up, he'd see they were bright orange—exactly as the monster's. His hunting instincts crowed to put a bullet between his eyes, end his suffering; but his fatherly side kept him frozen. There was no other explanation: he was in one surrealistic nightmare.

Willis too figured it out. Glancing around, he became astounded at the other two's reactions. Wasn't it obvious what had to be done? Snatching up the lonely gun from the floor, he rushed forward aiming it at the teenager, "Out of the way!"

Frightened, Dean threw himself in front of his brother defensively, "NO! NO!"

Overcome with fury, John strode forward and swiped the gun from the man's hand. "Don't you dare point that at my boy!" he bellowed.

"Then what are you going to do? Huh?" Willis yelled back. Pointing at the quivering creature, he said, "He's one of those things now. Standing there acting all shocked and shaky is not going to do anything. Sooner or later he's going to kill someone."

At that statement, both Winchester men went silent. Sam whined curling himself into a tighter ball, rocking harder. Dean turned around and whispered, "It's okay. He's wrong. He's wrong." Even if he knew the bastard was right.

But Willis had to reinforce that he was right. "If you can't get it through your thick skulls that there's only one choice…if you can't bring yourselves to put him out of his misery, then I will!"

He stepped ahead to do as he threatened and that was when John non-hesitantly punched him off his feet. Willis sprawled to the ground, glancing frighteningly up at the father who stood overtop gazing murderously at him with his son's gun raised and poised in his palm.

"You come anywhere near my boy and I won't hesitate," John huffed, "I should kill you right here and now."

He pulled back the lever to prove a point. Willis's eyes widened briefly, in disbelief that possibly –given John's hostile attitude- this could truly be his final moment. Undeniably, a shocked gasp escaped past his bleeding lips.

"Dad," Dean called softly.

John turned, keeping his gun aimed at the, in his eyes, worthless piece of floormat.

His son gave him a disheartening look. "Don't. Just stop. You're scaring Sammy."

The father paled a shade…maybe two. He glanced over at his youngest, who was staring at him over the tops of his knees. The skin around his eyebrows was wrinkled into a mountain peak—a sign, since he was a toddler, indicating that Sammy was apprehensive. John quickly turned the safety mechanism on, lowering the gun by his side. Silently apologizing, he stepped closer towards his two boys.

With his eye set on John and his pistol, Willis cautiously sat into a sitting position, thumbing the blood sliding down his lip. Afterwards, he remained stiff, weary that the slightest move would send his fellow pal over the edge.

Dean continued to stare at his father over his shoulder, almost pleading with him. "Willis is right. We can't just sit here and do nothing. We have to try something. A spell, maybe? I don't know. We can call Bobby? He's good with that sort of stuff."

John shook his head. "I don't think so. I know most of the spellwork he does. We work together on almost all the cases."

"Then what?" Dean nearly shouted in anger, causing his brother to cry. "We have to do something."

"You think I don't know that," John shouted back.

"I got an idea. One much quicker and probably more effective," someone said.

Both John and Dean wheeled around and looked at Willis. Dean eyed him hopefully, while John wasn't so pleasant about it. "What?" he said sharply.

"If I tell you, will you let me live?"

"If you don't start talking, I won't," John snarled.

Willis huffed. It never got any easier, did it? "With a little bit of spellwork, I'm sure I can save your son."

The click of the safety turned off and the pull of the lever sounded. Clearly John was in no mood to be bargained with. Willis raised his hands in surrender. "Okay. Okay. You're right I can't, but I know someone who can do it. I swear."

"You do?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Willis turned to him, "The witches. Remember I've been tracking her family down for the last year and a half. Why do you think I was here in the first place? There should still be one left."

Dean's face beamed. He looked to his father and saw John lower the gun. His rising hope began to dwindle, however, seeing his father's unconvinced expression. "Come on Dad. It's worth a shot."

The liquid inside his broken thermostat began to experience turbulence. Trust was never his strong suit; especially regarding other hunters. It would be of no surprise if this two-timing bastard was lying as a ploy to escape. Still glaring, he spat, "You better be right. Can you find this witch?"

The coward's eyes shined. He stared dead-on and John relaxed a bit, comforted somewhat that he wasn't lying. "Just before I met you I located the main coven. If I'm correct and it's still there, then it shouldn't be a problem."

"Good," John flipped the safety back on, stowing the gun in his front jacket pocket—to keep it close and within reaching distance instead of behind the belt. "I'm coming with you. And if you're wrong and just saying this, I'll put one between your eyes before you have time to say 'Please Don't'."

Willis hopped to his feet. "Okay I get it," he said bitterly.

* * *

The pair of hunters had been gone for a while. From the bright rays beaming through the busted door and the stampedes of forest critters on the outside, it appeared to be noon. Sam in that time no longer rocked, but still kept curled in his ball. Periodically he uncurl, and take a peak at his hands, obviously praying he was in the midst of some nightmare and any minute he was about to wake up. When it became clear to the teenager the dozen or so times that it was all real, he'd whimper and hug his knees again.

Dean sat beside him the entire time, clasping a hand over one shoulder, reminding him he was still around. No words were mixed. Just an occasional 'shhh' or 'it's going to be okay'. There wasn't any room for false hope, he knew, but all he had left in his Arsenal of Big Brother Reassurances (ABBR for short) was sarcasm and there wasn't any room for that either; Sam was too petrified.

Rubbing circles against the shoulder, Dean went into a theoretical perspective. All of this happened so fast, he was trying to get a grip on how it first started; on how everything had happened. Mainly he figured from Calvin's explanation on the monster's origin that it was a curse. The attack on Sam in the motel room, when it had bitten down on Sam it had to have transmitted that particular disease/curse. Leann acquired it when it had bitten her whilst reaching into her closet. So somehow, it carried on through saliva. _Gross._

If it was a curse, then it had to break.

As much as he had learned about curses, there wasn't much to do except get out of its way.

Only now Sammy was in the clutches of one…and a real nasty one at that.

And there was no avoiding it like how they were taught in Hunter Preschool. Dean hadn't the slightest clue on how to break it…or even how to approach solving it. All he knew was that his kid brother was in trouble and he wasn't going to rest until either the curse was lifted…or Sam was dead.

Option number two wasn't optional.

He was going to break this curse.

Even if it killed him to do it.

He prayed that the witch Willis spoke of knew how to manage it. Though he was against putting his faith in powers of the supernatural; there wasn't any choice in this matter. Sam was not going to live an immortal life as a monster, surviving in the dark, and eating flesh. That too wasn't an option. Based on Sammy's reaction, he was against it as well.

Still attempting to console, Dean prayed for his father to make a speedy return. It won't be long until night fell, and who knew how Sam would react then. The daylight at least was keeping him grounded.

Not long after when Dean began to grow concerned, plus sore from all the un-cared-for injuries on his part, the sound of strained voices echoed and the crunching of leaves sounded. His curiosity and hope hitched up a notch when he heard cursing and someone struggling.

Soon the veranda floorboards creaked and the hunters stepped in, Willis holding onto a girl's arm. She danced wildly around him, fighting her captor to the best of her ability. She seemed tall—hard to tell as she was leaning away from the man and she was incredibly pale in the shadows. Dean couldn't see her face as her dark hair whipped wildly around her face. But he couldn't help feel that she had a sense of familiarity.

John said nothing as he strode over to his sons, his face entirely unreadable. Dean felt a little uncomfortable by it. Willis shook the protesting girl like a rag doll and then released her. She fell onto her palms issuing out a Gaelic curse. Her hair moved from her face and Dean's heart panged.

_Anya._

* * *

Though not entirely surprised, Dean couldn't help but feel like an idiot staring awestruck at the girl before him. So it was confirmed? Anya was a witch. He had his suspicions while investigating her house, and now the allegations he surmised against his poker-queen were true. He couldn't describe how he truly felt, for mutual feelings of resentment and hopefulness seemed to even themselves out.

Anya, spitting out a strand of hair from her pink lips, sent a baleful glare towards the two hunters, before settling an even more hateful stare on Dean. Fiery glints formed in her emerald eyes, and Dean knew instinctually they were in for one rough meeting.

"Get up," Willis snarled. "Get up and fix him," he pointed at the trembling boy.

"Or what?" Anya spat back. "Kill me if I don't? Ha, don't make me laugh."

She was different now. Her voice was deeper, having a dark rasp to it. Her pointy jaw was screwed tight, her body tense with anger, no longer quivering and skittish. There was no smile, nor any hint of the heart-warming, delectable attitude Dean adored so much. Now there stood a tough and powerful woman, a witch apparently with an extraordinary gift.

"Witch, if you knew what was better for you, you'd keep that pretty trap shut!" Willis threatened.

Anya scoffed. "Words, hunter. That's all you have: meaningless words and zero accountability. You don't even have a sack, I'm sure."

The retched sneer off Willis's abnormally cheerful face morphed into a full on angry-Gorilla-teeth mode. "Why you little…" He went to place a mighty kick.

"Stop it."

The leg stopped in mid-swing. All eyes then turned to the source of the stern imperative. Dean staggered to his feet grimacing, wrapping an arm around his midriff. He said again, "I said stop it. Don't hurt her."

John squinted, unsure about his son's objection. "Dean, if this witch doesn't comply, then your brother doesn't have a chance," he insisted.

Dean stepped forward glaring intensely at his father. He understood his father's reasoning, but treating someone like an ill-mannered pup wasn't leaning in the right direction either. He took a haggard breath, "S-seriously D-dad. Would you help someone if they backed you in a corner? Please, just back off."

The two hunters both took a step back. Anya huffed slowly climbing to her feet still keeping her raging gaze on Dean. Eerily, her eyes never left him. Dean took another staggering step towards them. "I-I know Anya. She would never hurt a fly. And I also know that if you force something on her, she won't help," he looked to John. "Dad I got this. Why don't you and Willis hang outside for a bit?"

"Dean, no." John objected.

"Dad, please," Dean pleaded.

"Dean's right," Anya announced, "If you want a snowballs chance of me helping you, then you'd skip."

There was a grand moment when everyone in the room, including Sam, was quiet. Everyone glanced at each and every other person, pondering what action to take. John shook his head, biting his lip looking back and forth from one son to the next. He wanted to remain right there, standing like a statue if need be, in case he was needed. Waiting outside was not what he had in mind in taking care of business, especially with keeping an eagle's eye on Willis's every move. There were more important things.

Cringing a bit at the pull of air, Dean cleared his throat, signaling to the other occupants that it was time to make a decision. John let out a great disapproving huff. "Fine. But make it quick. Sam doesn't have much time. Let's go," he said towards Willis.

The man shifted his weight, eying John incredulously. "You can't be serious? Of course she'll want us to leave. Leave her all alone with a hormonal teenager. You know as well as I do, she'll mindmeld him and then escape. And then what? I don't like it."

"Nobody does," John bellowed, the frustration and anxiety accumulated from the past two days rushing at its peak. "But we don't have a choice. Now let's go."

Willis gritted his teeth. He gave Anya one last glare. "Fine. But this ain't over witch."

Anya returned his glare with a little smirk. "We'll see."

After the two hunters reluctantly left the three, keeping the door open, Dean gave his poker-queen an awkward smile. "So you're a witch, huh?"

There wasn't a reply.

Dean tried again. "So I guess we're all full of surprises. You're a witch. I'm a hunter, or the son of one. And my brother's now a monster."

Anya continued to stare. It was beginning to be a little uncomfortable. "Yeah, okay, that was a bit much. Now that we're off to a bad start, why don't we cover the basics? I'm a hunter, as you already know. And we were hunting the thing that was offing the people in town. The good news is the bad guy's finished now, dust and ashes. But you see, we've run into a minor complication on this hunt. See?" he pointed to the curled figure in the corner. Anya glanced at the teenager briefly before resettling her hardened gaze back on her presumed enemy. "Sammy's in trouble. We need you to reverse it. Can you reverse it?"

Still the girl remained to be mute.

Dean closed his eyes briefly, never before having gone into begging territory. But whenever it came to the well-being of his kid brother, he'd beat up the ferryman and cross the River Styx if he had to. "Anya please. I don't want to have to do this. But I need your help. Sammy, he…" he paused, having to fight the overwhelming emotion trickling over him. "Please. My brother needs your help. If not for me, then for him. He's just sixteen years old. He's a straight-A student. Never once hurt anything. Even when we take him on all the hunts, he never once helped in killing anything. I mean, the kid's still a virgin. He can't die a virgin, right?"

Anya finally looked away. To Dean, it was a step in the right direction. "Please. Just please…I-I know you're a…you're a…" he became lost over his words, "I know you're different. And I won't judge you."

That seemed to spark something. Anya glowered. "We are all different Dean," she admonished in a deep unsettling voice, "And because of that we all, my kind and others, are automatically condemned. My family…never once harmed anyone. And yet, they were killed…for what they were born as. You need to understand that if I do this? I'm still good as dead. Now tell me, under that pretense, why should I help you?"

Dean's lip trembled. "Because it's my baby brother. I practically raised him since birth. And I can't…I can't…I won't let him die. Because if he dies? I die too. I'm sorry for what happened to your family. I am. I didn't know. But please! He's my brother. He means too much to me. I'll do anything."

After that statement, Anya then began to show a sign of sympathy, of compassion. Her emerald eyes drifted away, finding their way to the youngest Winchester, who peeked over his bony knees. A shiver coursed through the witch's frame. She took a step back, as though any minute she might bolt through the open door. Dean gave her a patented puppy-dog look of his own, praying she will take the bait.

Luckily without need, she had taken the bait. Hesitantly, she strolled past Dean to the boy in the corner, and knelt by his side. Sam gave her a half-frightened, half-pleading look, saying nothing. With her eyes screwed tight, and without touching him, Anya's hands hovered over his frame. It was as if she was sensing him, spiritually seeing through to his core.

Calming slightly after about a minute, she softly lifted Sam's chin. "Look into my eyes," she intoned. Cautiously, Sam did, soon becoming lost. "That's it. Shhh," she said noticing the drawn and unfocused gaze.

Sam seemed to be under a trance the longer Anya stared. Then suddenly she broke the contact, but still the boy stared on in a daze. Anya carefully sat beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders, leaning his head against her bosom. Sam went with it, his taut body features finally relaxing. "Shhh," Anya cooed, running a hand softly over his head. She closed her eyes and began to mutter an incantation.

It was mumbled, but Dean distinctly heard a few words of Latin in the passage. Watching Anya cradle his brother, Sam's eyes soon began a session of long blinks, becoming longer the more she muttered. Once she was finished with her magic, the boy was casually asleep in her arms, his features lax and at ease.

"What'd you do?"

"He was too frightened for my magic to penetrate. I need him to be calm," Anya insouciantly answered, "Dean, know this. He has not undergone full transformation. Not yet at least. Only until sundown will the process be complete. And then any hope of reversing the curse will be forever lost. We have until then."

"So can you help him? You save him?" Dean asked hopeful.

She sighed. Dean didn't know what to think of it. Though typically skilled at reading people, she was one character his skill failed at. But he could interpret something from the dazzling emeralds: she was in deep cogitation.

"Give me your jacket," she demanded.

"Why?"

"Because it is something he associates with you. It has your scent on it. At the very least, it will keep his growing hunger at bay, for however long it can. Give it here."

Dean immediately obeyed. Handing over his father's hand-me-down leather jacket, the girl neatly folded it and gently lowered the boy to the floor, placing the jacket beneath his head. Anya slowly climbed to her feet again, backing away still apprehensive of the creature.

"So?" Dean pressed.

Anya sighed again before answering, keeping her eyes trained on the sleeping teenager. "As you know, nothing is certain. I'm not fully…I don't know…I am unaware of the full extent of my power. I haven't come of age yet."

"When do you come of age?"

"Twenty-one."

"Oh! Same year you can legally drink. Best year yet," Dean quipped, making light of the situation.

"I can't lie to you Dean. I don't know what can save your brother or if there is anything at all," Anya's gaze saddened.

"Then what do you have? Please I'll try anything," the brother pleaded.

"But I do have resources. Books. Sources in my home far beyond my people's time," she breathed, hesitant in her answer. "I can look there and see if there is a cure, or an antidote. My mother was grand, had far more power than I can ever hope to achieve. If she were here, I am certain we can come up with something. But because of your friend…" she trailed off. "He, undeniably, put us at a disadvantage. But one thing I am most sure of, your brother only has until sundown."

Dean gulped. "Then I'll go with you. And we'll do whatever we have to do. Find anything we can."

Anya nodded. "Sure. But know this, I'm only helping you, because it's you. You've shown me kindness, unlike most hunters I've encountered. And if this pulls through and we are successful, I will leave and never see you again."

The anvil teetering on the thin rope finally dropped, weighing down heavily in his tattered gut. He would have given anything to not hear the stipulation, but there was no other choice. Sammy's life hung in the balance. "That's fine," he reluctantly agreed.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: **

**Dean's Frantic Search**

The trip to Anya's cottage was a quiet one. Giving a direct order to the two hunters on the porch to keep an eye on his little brother, Dean rushed at a limp towards the Impala. Not having the patience or the time to handle Willis's protests, he hurried on with the girl alongside, not stopping for a break until his bottom was settled in the leather-clad seat. Without another second to spare, the Impala lurched onto the rocky road heading east. Not a word was spoken for the trip's entirety.

Hastily the Impala's brakes skidded creating muddy ruts amongst the turf in the cottage's driveway. Dean quickly emerged from the drivers seat, but not before Anya was out and running into her gloomy domicile.

"Anya, wait up!" Dean yelled, taking off at a limp. Crossing the yard in a short amount of time, he took a flying leap over the dilapidated porch, entering the darkened hallway. He was expecting to hear rummaging of clutter or shuffling footsteps, or something. The lack of movement and the total silence threw him for a loop. He tensed, stepping cautiously forward.

"Anya?" he called.

There was no answer. He took another step into the dark calling out Anya's name a second time, and still there was no movement. Tingles of uneasiness rippled up and down his spine. This was too eerie; though he wasn't entirely surprised. Nor was it totally unexpected when a strong hand suddenly gripped the collar of his shirt, and forcefully pinned him to the wall.

Struggling was no use as the hand pinned him good and tight. With his arms splayed out in surrender, he gazed deeply into his captor's very bold eyes.

Anya sneered, her stone-cold expression boring into his. "Now that we're alone, and you're unarmed. You tell me the truth. Did you or did you not aide in the capture and murder of the members of my coven?" she asked icily.

Dean breathed. "No," he answered honestly.

Suddenly he felt a sharp blade slide up against his throat.

The witch glared. "Did you know the hunter?"

"Who? Willis?"

The knife dug deeper into the supple skin. "All right! All right!" he surrendered, in absolute disbelief of the tight spot he found himself in. "No we didn't. He just showed up."

"You're father wasn't working with him?" Anya questioned.

"No. Yes. I don't know," Dean stumbled over his words. "He didn't want to, but the guy kept following him around like a lost puppy. Dad said Willis wanted to work with him, but since he got that social worker killed, Dad said no."

"So you have no affiliation with him whatsoever?"

"No!" Dean exclaimed. "And I wouldn't have any _affiliation_ with him afterward either."

Anya side-glanced at him, intrigued.

Dean huffed, slowly lowering his arms. "He kidnapped my brother Anya. We were trying to skip town to get away from that thing when it came for Sam the night before last. Willis found us in a parking lot, took Sam out of the car, and then tried to use him as bait to draw the thing back to the house. If we hadn't gotten there in time…who knows what would have happened?"

The edge of the dagger slowly began to recede, but still was kept planted at his neck. Dean stared hard into his friend's eyes. "Trust me. I would much rather kill him right now, but there's no time."

The two remained where they were by the wall. Anya continued to glower suspiciously at Dean, still unsure if he could be trusted. "I have to know," she said inaudibly before gently placing a hand to his forehead.

Dean stared in wonder at what she was doing. However given the fast swiveling action of her eyes, it didn't take a rocket scientist to prove that she was reading his mind. After a minute or two of incredibly awkward silence, she relented her sway, carefully tucking the dagger away within the belt of her pants. "You speak the truth. That is good."

"I told you! Wow already having trust issues this early in the relationship, I'd say we have a lot to work on," he retorted.

Anya huffed. "I'm sorry," she spoke, "But I had to know for certain. Your scent is all over the place."

"Oh! That's probably because I snuck in here earlier," Dean grinned sheepishly, readjusting his shirt collar. "But you already knew that. I was worried about you. I had to come and see if you were okay. _That_ and I had to make sure you weren't a suspect."

"Hmmm," Anya disapproved, "You could've just asked."

His awkward grin grew wider. "Naturally. But there is one thing Anya. I noticed a blood patch by the fireplace, was that…"

"My father," she answered, her eyes moistening. "The night I left you at the bar, I came home and he was lying here by the hearth. He was dead for hours. My mother was found not too long after that in the woods."

"I'm sorry."

"Yea," she mumbled in short appreciation. "Come. There is much to do."

Shrugging away the soft tremors the young girl struck in him, Dean followed her down through the rest of the hallway. Various white and red candles, tealights in votives, and long sticks lit up once they passed into the living quarters. Each candle lighting up in a stream once they approached; the green-orange glow illuminating a path towards the stairs.

The trip up the stairs was brief. Soon he was turning onto a platform that housed the banister overlooking the livingroom. They passed by it heading towards a warped door at the far end of the short stretch. Anya stopped before entering the centuries-old entranceway. Closing her eyes, she muttered something in Latin, and then the door magically popped open. Swirls of dust floated off the edges, giving way to a gray darkened room. Dean hesitantly waited; anxious to see what action Anya did next. If she offered for him to enter after her, he was hightailing it out of there? To his relief, she entered almost immediately.

The lights flickered on once she passed the threshold, and what Dean saw nearly took his breath away. Somehow instead of being a small closet to what he originally thought the room was; it was a grand auditorium. It's rafters reached high like a tower, the walls shaped like a gigantic fish bowl. It was huge, almost like the size of Carnegie Hall. Okay, yeah that was a bit of an exaggeration. But you get the gist! The room was filled with dust-ridden tables and bookshelves, cauldrons, pots, and bottles of various colors glinting, giving off a beautiful display of the Northern Lights. Dean was in awe.

Anya caught the stud's drooling look. She gave a pretentious smile. "Welcome to our laboratory Dean. Well, our lab in so many ways."

"Whoa," Dean said. It was all he was capable of saying.

"All right," she strode forward, heading to a large bookshelf to the right. "The best thing to do is split up. Take the bookcase over there—" She hardly got to the word bookcase before Dean was there, already pulling out as many books as his arms could carry. "Search for any remedies, potions, anything that has a purging effect. Hopefully there is something else my father came up with."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, but he received no answer. Anya already had her nose buried deep into one of the large dusty tomes, skimming through its pages. She sat at a large round table surrounded by piles of thick journals and books.

Laying down his own pile, he set to work, flipping past several old and papyrus-like pages. Several potions he quickly read through had him convulse with nausea. One in particular had ingredients such as toenails, toadlegs, and fingers of warlocks. The penciled drawing of a man's face melting off, revealing the skeleton beneath was a little too much for his insensitive gut.

He flipped on through the pages, catching others that dealt with ridding of itch-fits and skin-boils, changing appearances, and his favorite so far, how to grow extra limbs. None of the several potions or whatever told how to rid of a nasty curse. And that led to the dawning realization that he had no unearthly idea of what he was looking for, or what exactly he was dealing with.

"I don't get it Anya," he blurted. "What exactly does Sammy have? If it's not a magical curse, then what is it?"

"Oh it was a curse all right," Anya answered without looking up, "but not the kind that can be broken by spiritual means. It's vastly different."

Dean donned a puzzled look. "Come on, you gotta give me more than that. What _was_ that thing? What exactly did it do to my brother? Please Anya…I-I have to know really what I'm dealing with here, so I know what to look for."

Anya paused in her search, emitting out a long sigh.

Dean didn't appreciate _the sigh_, but he had to get down to business. He had to know what was really going on. "Okay I get it. The guy was a scumbag and a lousy poker player, and he pissed off a witch and she cursed him—which possibly…maybe…was your family. But I don't know. I just need to know," he paused, panting with emotion, "I just need to know what really happened?"

Anya sat back in the creaky chair, crisscrossing her tiny arms. She took a deep breath. "Do not believe all legends to be entirely accurate Dean. Yes, that part is true that a witch cursed a Mister Gilmore Calvin; and yes, that witch belonged to my coven. Our clan here consisted of the largest coven in New England. Over time groups of families moved off across the land, some living far in the West Coast..."

Dean quietly sat down in a chair on the opposite side of the table, getting ready for what he surmised would be a long and interesting story.

"The events and the murders that happened here over the past week is not the first time this town has had to deal with this. And you need to know first we did everything we could to stop it. My family was not responsible for bestowing this curse. That was the work of a demon, and a very dangerous one at that. One who was careless and thought of nothing but misery and destruction. I know. I was there. Yes, Gilmore Calvin was a terrible alcoholic and a gambler, but he didn't start out that way."

Dean jerked, intrigued. "What are you talking about?"

"It's rather sad story actually," her eyes suddenly glowed with disheartening nostalgia, "Greenton was once lively and rich, thriving for the better part of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Mostly it consisted of farming manufacturing. Several of the town's officials owned property somewhere in the hundreds of acreage. Gilmore Calvin was one of them. He was once a kind and loving father; just a farmer with a patch of land on the outskirts of town…"

"Wait a sec. I thought this town wasn't established until 1935. That's what we dug up in the county archives."

Anya donned a tight-lipped smile. She shook her head, "No. The county records say 1935, because in 1935 Gilmore Calvin no longer was human. The death toll and destruction was so vast, there were only a few members left. We had the records wiped cleaned."

"Oh," Dean piped, amazed.

"Before he turned, the depression happened in 1929. At that time it was difficult for all of us. Winters here would be brutal, especially for a farmer's crops, their livelihood. Gilmore had no choice but to come to town, to try and provide for his family. Working countless jobs and hard hours, receiving little to no respect—it wasn't hard for him to find his way to the bottle. Soon he became addicted to the nighttime parties, to the frequent gambling. At first he was rather gifted at scoring, walking away with at most a hundred dollars. Which during that day and age could've fed his family for an entire six months. But unfortunately it came at a cost and soon he was frequently losing as he was winning. From the bottle and the frustration, he then became a racketeer, bullying anyone. Women. Children. Anyone helpless. Which was nearly everyone. And then one night, he sealed his fate while picking on a hapless old woman, my _grandmother_."

"So you're grandmother was the witch the demon possessed?"

"Yes," she answered. "It took us a short while to address her idiosyncrasies, only for us to learn she was something entirely demonic. And believe me the union of a demon in an elderly witch's body is a lethal combination. By the time we figured out the answer to my grandmother's mysterious behavior and exorcised the damn thing, Calvin had already turned. But as we learned later, it wasn't magic that created him; it was simply something he drank."

"Something he drank? Oh kinda like a _Farmer Fran_ version of _Jekyll and Hyde_?"

"Precisely…well. Only Mr. Hyde wasn't able to transform back into Mr. Jekyll. The demon served him a concoction that had in it various bloods of different creatures of the darkness. Vampire. Chupacabra. Werewolf. Just to name a few. So he no longer was human—made to live an immortal life thriving only in darkness. I'm most positive the demon hadn't thought its plan of retaliation out clearly. In an attempt to curse a man, it created something far more powerful and dangerous."

"It contained the blood of different things? Well that explains a lot why we couldn't pinpoint it down. So maybe it's not a curse at all. Maybe it's just something that needs to be bled out or diluted or something. That's a thought, right? But what makes it able to travel through the dark, through the shadows, and what not?"

Anya pursed her lips. "That I cannot answer. We've asked ourselves countless times, searching endlessly for an answer that of which we've been unable to produce. I've asked myself that for years. There is no other creature that I've heard of that can dissipate into something ethereal as a use for travel, other than a spirit and a demon. It might just have been a part of the curse?"

"Oh…that's, that's nice. Wha—wait a minute. How do you know all this? What do you mean you were there? I thought you were only nineteen?" Dean asked, now a little freaked to why the young witch knew so much.

Anya gave him an amused look. "I am. But I must be honest with you. Witch ages are much different than a regular human's. Our calendar runs differently."

Dean continued to appear puzzled.

"In laymen's terms, think of it as dog years. One year would equal seven for a dog. To you one year would equal a total of thirteen for us. I am uncertain for why that is. There are ascertained assumptions to that particular number, many associating with the _Great Goddess of Laussel_. But like I said, that is still up in the air."

With eyebrows quirked, Dean tried doing the mental math. "Thirteen? So that would make you…"

"Two Hundred and Forty Seven. Soon to be Two Hundred and Forty Eight," Anya replied, almost laughing at the shocked expression on Dean's face.

Dean was beyond stunned and amazed. "Oh. Two hundred and forty seven? Oh! _Two hundred and forty seven!_ Huh? No wonder you're so good at poker. Hell, you probably created the game."

"We witches live for a long time, most of us devoted to the craft and to the spirits of the Earth. There are only a small percentage of us that practice black magic and devote themselves selfishly to the dark arts. It's them that give our kind a bad name. We do not treat the dark arts with kindness. It goes against every virtue and tradition we struggle so hard to keep and maintain through this time of chaos."

"Yeah well, I agree with you there. So tell me more about what happened. Demon comes to town, gives the bully his just desserts, then what? My brother said something about this town's five founders and gold or something. So what's that about?"

Now it was Anya's turn to be stunned. "The five founders?" she choked. "Haha. Is that what the kiddies are calling them now-a-days? That is quite amusing."

Dean shrugged. "I don't know."

Anya quelled her laughter. "No. The five founders were actually the five remaining survivors. You have to understand Dean, when this thing was on the prowl; it practically demolished nearly every living thing here. The buildings. The livestock. The townspeople. When my family and I were finally able to subdue it, there were only five left, one of them was Gilmore's brother. The gold they acquired through us. We gave them a fair amount in hopes of reestablishing the town, in rebuilding what was lost. Only…in their greed, they wanted more. Went as far as to threaten us with a hanging for who we were if we hadn't complied, just like in the good old days. So then my family decided to wipe their memories clean. I was against it, but I was overruled."

"But that sounded like the better option. Why didn't you do that in the first place?"

"Would you so willingly rid someone of their hopes, their dreams, memories of their families, and who they once were?"

"Yeah," he answered in a 'duh-like' fashion

Anya scoffed. "Typical."

"So with all the sigils and the wards and everything," Dean continued, "for the past sixty sum years, your family hasn't had a grudge against this town, you've just been protecting it?"

"When we couldn't find a way to destroy the monster, the only feasible solution to do was to lock it away. We tried. Believe me, we tried everything. Spells. Weapons. Even sunlight. But nothing could repel it. It literally defined an invincible foe."

"If sunlight couldn't kill it then, why did it have such an effect on him now?"

"Perhaps through time it became susceptible. I'm not entirely sure. But it could be that the sun is much stronger than it used to be, possibly with the deterioration of our Ozone. But even still, the decision was made to lock it away and so we had to come up with something to lure it in," Anya went on.

"The perfume bottles, you mean," Dean made the connection. "So that's where the stuff came from. That perfume stuff? Something that rancid, I doubt it was perfume at all. It was something you guys made, wasn't it? You had to create something to lure it in somehow?"

"Hmmm, you're quite the sharp tack. Yes. It's a potion, made by the bloods of certain prey. Since we learned that the concoction consisted of bloods from various creatures, we decided to extract samples from what those creatures would prey upon. For example: human blood and cow urine. Vampires are very tricky. But it worked luckily. We were able to draw it back into its original house, trap it inside a spellbound trunk and keep it away. Afterward my father took the duty of setting up a perimeter. For if it were to escape? It would have not been able to escape past the confines of the woods. As much as I wanted to cast that thing into the bottom of the sea, the order was to keep it hidden inside the house."

"Why? Why didn't you guys just torch it?"

"You're right, we could've. And believe me, several of us, including me, were for it. But at that time, my kind's presence was exposed and many of us were persecuted, hunted down and killed. Our coven leader decided to keep it; in case there ever was a time we needed to release the creature again. So the orders were to keep it, protect it at all times, and we are bound by magical decree to abide by them."

"Magical decree?"

"A law," she answered, "basically. But a magical decree is worthless. It means nothing unless you get caught. The events that happened in 1935 were too horrific for memory. Even if we knew humans were wandering, my clan members and I would not step a foot in the direction of that house. We made a vow to never harm a human person. It was only recently that a few of our members happened to break that vow."

"What happened?"

"I wasn't here at that time. But apparently there was this snooping historian floating around. While chatting with my parents in our home one day, he managed to slip out a few of our journals and diaries and had planned on exploiting them. I don't know exactly what happened to him, but the damage was already done. We don't know who all he had conveyed in his findings. And I know this is…this is our comeuppance. Anyway, the plan, as it were, was effective for a while. We knew the perimeter set around the woods was still in effect. At least until…"

_The tree in the woods_, Dean thought as he listened.

"I hadn't known the link was broken, until the third murder. And by then it was too late. It was already out. Human interference can be a trifling thing. As well as…"

_Hunters_, Dean also thought.

"My mother held the key to the wards, the sacred rights. The wards my mother performed were not the ones guarding the creature, but the ones guarding the chest. They were alive as long as her heart beat," a lone tear fell and she had to blink it away. "She died before she had offered the rights to me. And once it was back on the loose, there was no stopping it. Now you see our predicament? Why do you think I was out there that day putting spelltracks on the houses? I know you saw me that day, but I couldn't talk to you. I didn't know what else to do to keep this town safe. All of our supply was gone, taken by meddling teenagers. I couldn't track it down in time."

Dean sighed. "Yeah. I get it now," he went back to his pile of books. "And again I'm sorry. I'm glad you told me. It was all I needed to know. But we still have to find a way to help Sammy. And with Dad and Willis there, I'm just hoping he's still asleep."

* * *

It had been a good three or four hours since Anya and Dean had left. Inside the ramshackle house was quiet. The two hunters sat apart from each other, each keeping a vigil on the slumbering monster curled in the corner. Hardly any word was spoken while both stayed focused, keeping a trained eye on the youngster. The sun was high up now, bringing along with it a wave of heat. With the windows boarded up plus very little airflow streaming through the wide-opened door, a sauna-like haze settled, leaving each occupant hot and sticky with sweat.

Willis stayed a good distance away from John, sitting Indian-style on the empty-spaced flooring. Running away sounded like a good idea, but with the other hunter sitting with a gun by his side, he was very keen in not taking his chances. He had planned to live after today. But now, sitting for hours, not talking, hot and bruised? That bullet to the brain sounded like a very good idea. Boredom was a very treacherous thing.

John couldn't differ much from the opinion. He shifted his back a little against the wall, careful for the squeaks and groans that came with the movement. He didn't want to take a chance of waking Sammy. In truth, he hadn't a clue of what to do if and when his son did wake up from his much-needed siesta. Mentally he wasn't prepared yet. Strong self-flagellating feelings rose up within him, striking down a righteous hammer at his core. Riddled with guilt, he watched his son noting the pained-free face, the lax body features, and slow evened breaths. Sam seemed to be at peace, and he wasn't about to ruin that.

Coughing broke him from his dazed mind and he looked at Sam again, noticing a trickle of blood sliding down his torn lip past one of the protruding canines. It was then the strong feelings came back in full force. He sighed. "I can't believe this is happening. Of all things to happen…it had to be this. What am I going to do?" he muttered out loud. A heavy wave of emotion rolled over him and it was in that moment, he felt completely useless, defenseless, and vulnerable.

At the muttering, Willis rolled his eyes. His shoulders slumped some more, not at all thrilled in hearing the classic "It's my fault" speech.

"God, I could've…this is all my fault. This is all my fault," John continued to whisper, smacking his head on the wall. "Something told me he was sick, and I put him at risk. And now this? God Dammit."

"Oh pipe it down over there," Willis said rudely.

"Shut up," John retorted.

"You first," Willis countered. "No one wants to hear your little guilt trip."

John huffed. "Don't get me started. If you hadn't taken Sam, none of this would have happened."

"Bullshit!" Willis exclaimed, raising his voice up a notch…or three. "Your kid was already bitten. It wouldn't have mattered if I had taken him or not. He still would have turned. You're just damn lucky I stuck around to help you find that witch. Cuz if not, then what would you have done?"

John sent him a glare, unable to come back with a heated reply. Ultimately because he knew Willis was right. As much as he hated to admit it, the bastard was right. He shook his head, still glaring. "I'm still going to kill you, you know that?"

"Yeah whatever."

Over in the corner, Sam's nose twitched. His eyes popped open and he took a grand sniff. Something was calling him. Something smelt good, having a salivating appeal. His eyes wove all around searching for the delicious source. Whispers and harsh taunts drummed against his ears, and he then noticed his Dad and another guy in the room. His nose lifted, his head following. The smell was so good; he had to find it.

He stopped. There was another smell he could not quite make out. It was not as strong as the other one, but it did have a sense of familiarity. Deciphering it took a little bit longer than he liked, but soon he learned it was a fragrance of leather and motor oil. But it still had yet to compute as to why it was so familiar. The source of it seemed to be coming from the jacket at his head, but it still frustrated him to not pinpoint where he knew it came from.

He caught another whiff of the other one. And suddenly all senses seemed to have spiraled out of control. It was so mind-numbing; his mind completely ignored the smell of leather. Searching a second time for the source, he found it. Terror ripped through him at the realization that it was coming from the guy sitting not one yard from him. He remained by the jacket, trying hard to stay still in his curled ball, abhorring his realization.

However as the minutes ticked by, the hunger to devour became worse. The smell was incredibly powerful. Every muscle fought hard in not moving. They twitched and writhed, agonizingly protesting to move. He wanted to stay put, drive off the growing hunger…but the thrall was far too great.

Sam took another look at Willis. The hunter had his head turned; his neck exposed revealing the pumping action of his jugular. He could already taste the sweat, the dried blood beneath the man's nose. It was a metallic sweet. Really sweet and somehow he now had a raccoon's sweet tooth.

Willis didn't know what hit him. One second he was delivering a harsh retort John's way, and the next the sleeping kid was on him, lifting him up by the scruff of his jacket. Surprise acted like paralysis and he couldn't move, not even when the kid swiped at his face, leaving four long raw gouges.

John, too, was taken by surprise, when Sam leapt to his feet and had Willis by the neck in under a second. Scrambling to his feet as fast as he could, he looped his arms beneath Sam's armpits before the boy took a big chunk out of Willis's neck, and pried him away. Sam thrashed and swung and kicked his limbs, screeching much like what Leann had done. He tightened his grip and dragged him away, leaving Willis as a puddle on the floor.

"Sam stop! Sammy stop!" John hollered, "Sammy! Son. Please!"

The teenager ignored him (as usual), swiping his hands, clawing, still prone to attack Willis. "SAAAMMM!" He screamed, his face developing a dark shade of puce. John was having a hard time in holding back his squirming child.

Willis finally broke from his paralytic reverie. Stumbling to his feet, he crossed over to the window. Pulling on the boards, he used all of his strength to wrench and tear. Eventually with three good yanks, the top board in the window peeled off and a beam of light shot through, hitting Sam square in the face.

The teenager froze, gasping. Then he let off a series of high-pitched squeals, shielding his face. Curling his feet upward, still in his father's hold, Sam writhed and shrieked while plumes of smoke unfurled off his skin. Quickly wrestling out of his father's grip, he made his way back to his corner and out of the light, falling victim to a round of shivers.

Both Willis and John took a long pant. They exchanged brief glances first before turning back to Sam. Loud sniffles and cries sounded from the corner. Sam shook terribly with tears streaming down his face. John saw the look in his eyes, and saw that it was Sammy again. And he was devastated, petrified over what he had done, or tried to do. John felt his heart split in two like a crack in a teapot. That terrible sense of vulnerability had taken its peak.

Sam's sniffles and cries grew louder. He looked to his father and cried, "D-dad." It pained John even further to hear it. It was the same sound he'd make as a toddler when he had a nasty nightmare. Only this time, he couldn't console. He couldn't even touch him.

"D-dad. D-dad. Please help me. Dad," Sam pleaded, his arms shaking even more.

John's porcelain heart now shattered. His son was pleading for help and he couldn't help for he was now the enemy. John wanted to come over, wanted to do something, but he stayed away. Fear grappled him, shaking him in a vice-like grip, forcing him to stand and do nothing. Every part of his being wanted to run to his pleading boy, comfort him, be the father he failed at so many times before. But the pervading fear crippled him, made him doubt. Was this his boy? Or was it something else, pulling off a well theatrical display of pain and fright to draw him in to snack upon?

A pained sigh escaped his lips and he looked away. "Hurry up Dean."

* * *

The last few pages inside the battered book went by with alacrity. Sensing the waning sunlight outside the windowless room, Anya's worry and anxiety tripled beyond reckoning. Pushing the last book of her collection away, she slammed her fist down on the worn tabletop, planting her head in her palm, expunging out an exhausted breath.

Dean achingly raised his head. He could see the agitation written all over the witch's face, and it didn't help with his growing turmoil. "We'll find something Anya," he tried to console.

"I'm afraid there isn't any other thing to find," she replied brusquely.

A slight tremor bore into Dean's palm. He attempted to conceal it by carefully hiding it in his lap. "What do you mean?" his voice now picked up a quiver. "T-there has to be something!"

"Oh there is something! But you're not going to like it. In fact, its one I'm trying to avoid at all costs. But…I don't see any other choice."

"Well, what is it?"

"It's a counteragent," She went on, "One that can purge the bodies system of this disease."

"Okay, that's doesn't sound too bad," Dean shrugged, still unable to impede the shake in his hand.

Anya sighed again. "But…it's actually injecting more of the cursed cells into the bloodstream. These cells theoretically will fight off the infected ones. Eat them. Get rid of them. Effectively canceling them out."

"So it's like giving him more of this curse to get rid of it?" Dean clarified.

"Theoretically."

At the uncertainty leveling in her voice, Dean's instincts automatically went against it. "Eh, I don't know if I like it or not. There's got to be something else."

"There isn't. I don't like this any more than you do Dean, but I'm not seeing any other option here."

"No."

"You think your brother is the first victim this has happened to? We tried this potion before and even though there were some unwarranted results, it still had gotten rid of the curse."

Dean bucked back in his seat. Was she implying was he thought she was implying? "So it can kill him?"

Anya grimaced, confirming his presumption. "In most cases, yes. Before Gilmore was entombed, he had bitten and changed seven people. One of them was an eight-year-old boy, Gilmore's son. And we tried constantly, countless remedies, countless spells and potions. But none had any effect. It was tiring. My father was a well renowned alchemist, and we still could not find any solution."

The anvil that had dropped in his gut now had completed another round. He felt like it could punch a hole through him anytime now. What his poker-queen was suggesting was not optional. No way would he go through with it if whatever she was talking about had a chance of killing Sammy.

"…Until one day my father had created a potion," Anya continued. "Figuring the curse as a venomous bite, he treated it like so, say like a poisonous spider bite. We used the same method modern medicine had contrived in introducing the antigens of the venom itself back into the bloodstream. And that's finally when we were able to see some results. Only…"

"What? Only what? They died!"

She sighed again. That was becoming real annoying now. "Only it didn't have a coveted effect. The solution was able to rid of the curse, of the venom…but unfortunately it was too late. Only one survived and that was Gilmore's son. He passed within a week or so after he turned back."

"So it still worked?"

"Yes, it worked. But if we use this, there is a strong chance Sam won't make it."

Long ago was his bravado lost, and now there was the desperate brother. "No. I…I can't take that chance."

"Dean, we only have two hours til sundown," she emphasized. "It would take at most an hour to make this. There isn't much time for anything else. Sam is strong. I sensed it. He might be able to pull through this. He hasn't fully turned yet, so it might work differently."

"I—I don't…" he stumbled over his words, not at all sure if he wanted to make this decision.

"What other option do you have Dean? You know as well as I do your father won't let him walk out of there alive," Anya snarled.

"Shut up!" Dean lashed, with a tear trailing down his cheek. "He will never do that."

"Then ask yourself this. Would _you_ much rather have your baby brother live as a monster for eternity…or die as a human?"

At the choice given to him, Dean felt all the air rush out of his lungs. He was now in one very sticky spot with no leverage to get him out.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: **

**The Power of Goodbye**

It felt like he was riding a violent rollercoaster of emotions. Every loop, his heart ached to cure his brother. Every turn, he wanted to hold onto him. Every freefall, he was afraid to near him. Around and around it went, with no reprieve. Fear mixed with anxiety, along with desperation, all spun into one inconceivable web for Dean. He felt like he could hang himself in it.

Here he was, standing inside a dilapidated house, with his father behind him, a witch to the side, and his brother wrapped in a ball in the front. The moment had come, and he was at a loss of what to do. Terrified. As in most cases when a decision concerned one of your family members. But it wasn't just a family member. This was Sammy. His kid brother he practically raised since birth.

Sam rocked back and forth, the fear rippling off his frame in waves. Bruises festered beneath his jagged fingernails, the tiny hairs off his arms lengthened, and his neck muscles bulging. He was still in the midst of changing. Nightfall was approaching steadfast. Once the sun was down, according to Anya, would the transformation be complete and he'd have lost his brother forever. Once nightfall arrived, there would be no other choice than euthanasia.

Dean turned to Anya and stared hard into her emerald eyes. He would give anything not to have to put his brother down. "Are you sure this will work?" he asked, his voice strong, but yet tinted with desperation.

The witch's eyes shined. "Magic is a lot like science Dean. There are no guarantees," she answered softly, much wiser than he'd expect out of a nineteen-year-old potion-brewer, "I followed the remedy to the exact from what was given. There is only one way to know. And my warning still exists."

He turned away. The icy fingers of despair slowly grabbed at him. Of course, that was what she would say. It hadn't quelled his anxiety any less. "Dad," he called, needing another opinion. "Come here."

Immediately John came to his son's beckoning. Grateful he was called, he listened intently, curious as to why his son finally needed him.

"Dad," Dean began tentatively, taking deep breaths, "Should I?"

John flinched at the sadness in the tone, at the uncertainty for the next step. Being a father, he knew what he would have done. Now it was Dean to decide for himself what he should do. Accepting that it wasn't his call, he advised, "You've always taken care of Sammy. You always knew what to do even when I didn't. It wasn't me that put him to bed every night. It wasn't me that read him stories or took care of him, listened to him, or gave him advice when he needed it. That was all you. And that means this decision is up to you. You know your brother better than anyone. What do you think he would want you to do?"

Dean's eyes became blood-shot. He knew what Sam would do. But there was a chance this potion could kill his baby brother. His spirit became plagued at that thought. How would he go on in this world without Sam? Just saying that sounded wrong. He couldn't think of living each day without him, without having to look after him, without having to take him out partying, or giving that extra push to lose his virginity (which still had to be taken care of by the way). It just didn't seem right.

But then, he wouldn't let Sam become a monster. His sweet, innocent, geeky little brother—though a pain-in-the-ass from time to time—a monster? Come on, that too even sounded weird. But ultimately he couldn't let this happen. Besides there was a _chance_ it might kill him. Perhaps a little bit of hope didn't hurt. Perhaps it was time to push to the side the straight-up proof and facts and bring on some faith.

Taking the leather pouch from Anya's delicate hands, he knelt down beside the rocking creature. He had to let him know. He couldn't lie to him, not this time. "Sammy," he called softly. The boy emitted out a corrosive growl, without lifting his head. A clawed hand covered the side of his head, as if Sam was embarrassed and scared to be seen like he was. "Sammy," Dean called again, "I need you to look at me."

He received a shake of the head. That was a plus. That meant he could still comprehend and reason; that they hadn't lost him fully to being a monster yet. "Hey. It's okay. They won't judge you. And even if you don't believe me, don't look at them. Just look at me," Dean urged.

The growl became a pained whine. The rocking took a pause, but the head remained down. Dean sighed in frustration. "Come on Sammy. You can trust me. I won't hurt you. Never in a million years would I ever think about doing that. Please Sammy, just look at me."

Finally there was a lift of the head and the glow of orange eyes could be seen. "That's a good boy, come on," Dean encouraged.

Suddenly Sam's face morphed into a sneer, revealing his elongated canines. He took a swipe at him, which Dean barely avoided by falling back on his rump, only receiving a few fine scratches on his cheek. Everyone else jumped a step back. Realizing what he had done, Sam let out an aghast whimper retreating further back into the wall, curling into a tighter ball.

Dean instantly overcame his shock. "No Sammy, don't do that. Don't do that. You didn't mean it, I know. It wasn't you, so come on," he decided to be more serious, grabbing the sides of the boy's head and turning it to him. They were running out of time. He had to do what he had to do to make the boy listen. He took the risk of the boy retaliating…but deep down he knew Sam would never try to hurt him again.

"Listen to me. There isn't much time left—" Sam tried to shake him off, growling at him. Dean's insides screamed at him to pull away, to avoid the danger, but he held firm. Glaring deeply into Sam's downcast eyes, he reasoned, "You don't want to stay like this, right? You don't want to hurt people. Am I wrong?"

A couple of bloody tears fell down the side of Sam's cheek, giving him his answer.

"That's right. Now," Dean's voice trembled, "Now, Anya made something. A nasty fruit cocktail, just the way you like it. She says that it will help you. That it will turn you back." He breathed seeing that Sam's attention was fully focused, his eyes pleading and hopeful.

Tears threatened to be set free. Sniffing, Dean continued, his voice ladened with emotion. "But there's a chance that it will kill you, Sammy. I won't lie to you. It'll hurt. It'll hurt bad. But it'll turn you back. And I don't know if you will live through it or not. But you can prove us wrong, right? You can show what us Winchesters are really made of, right? You were always stronger than me."

Sam's face scrunched up in distraught. Dean's own sense was left somewhere in left field. But he didn't want his brother to give up hope. "I know this is tough. But you can do it. I have faith in you. But…but I won't force you. You have to want to do this…or…or else it won't work. Please Sammy, we're out of options," he gently released his brother's head.

More tears made their way down Sam's face. He too was at a loss of what to do. He was afraid of more pain. He was afraid of more agony. But he was equally scared of becoming a creature of the night, ultimately the hunger taking control forcing him to feed on people, thus truly being defined as a monster.

All logic pointed that he would die no matter his decision. His father would see to it that he'd bite a bullet before he fully turned. So basically it was either die by a hunter or die by some brewed concoction.

He didn't like either option. But as Dean had said, they were out of options. He had to choose soon, because he was losing the battle in keeping a curb on his growing hunger. The beast was beginning to rage within him. Very soon it would burst through its chains and wreak holy Hell, beginning with his family.

Reluctant to be apart from anything but human, Sam's decision was made. His eyes bore into Dean's and nodded. Keeping the beast at bay, he outstretched his hands. Dean took the hint and carefully slid the boy towards him into an embrace. John, Willis, and Anya all stepped forward, cautious of what he was doing.

"Get back," Dean ordered to them harshly. He turned his attention back to Sam, softly stroking the back of his head. Dean caught sight of the curly strands easily falling out and tangling within his fingers, and the ardor swelled with him. Continuing the stroking, he said, "Shhh. I'll be here with you the whole time, I swear."

Sam sniffed, crying into his shoulder. This amount of affection was just what he needed. He needed the one and only mounting block of support he had: his brother. In a time of need, especially this one, his brother was always the one he could count to be there for him, guide him through the woes. Satisfied with Dean beside him, he was ready.

Relinquishing his hold off his brother, Sam sat back giving the signal it was time. Shakily taking the leather pouch from Dean's hand, he loosened the string around the top, holding it at the ready. Dean silently sat back, watching with his jaw clenched tight. Sam took one finally glance around, on his brother, on his father, the others, then finally on the red sun peeking through the boarded window. It was painful to look at; but yet beautiful. In that second, he realized he would give anything to see its dazzling rays again, to feel its warmth on his skin. Looking at the leather pouch, he took one big swimmer's breath before lifting the contents into his mouth.

It was nasty! The liquid was like swallowing black muddy sludge. It reeked like sour cabbage and tasted worse. Still Sam continued to drink, until the last drop dripped. Throwing away the pouch, having a newfound hatred for it, Sam waited. He looked at the sharp fingernails and callous patches of skin, wondering what would change first.

So far nothing.

Minutes had passed and still nothing. No burning. No tingle. Not even a muscle twitch. Each person tensed with anticipation. He could smell their fear; which was odd to say in the least. After another minute and the Sun was singing its farewell, still everything remained as it was.

The potion, it seemed, had failed.

The icy hands of despair had finally claimed him. Dean's head fell to his chest, a certain numbness draping over him like a veil, believing there was only one option left. And his decision was set too. His turn wouldn't be far after Sam's. "Sammy," Dean gasped, gazing with trepidation.

Understanding the reason behind his brother's sadness, Sam reached out to try and console…then froze. A terrible spike jolted throughout his extremities, taking his breath away. Regaining his breath back, another agonizing jolt coursed through him, much more painful than the first. His eyes widened and his chest bucked forward as the jolts turned into spasms, coming in one after the other.

Everyone stood transfixed, uncertain of how to interpret what was happening. John came forward, terrified for his son, kneeling beside Dean who clutched at his arm. Sam then let out a terrible moan, falling down on his side, his face etched in panic and pain. Next his body went rigid, his chest and limbs at acute angles.

The pain escalated beyond excruciating. He tried to inhale, but then stopped short. It felt like someone had slammed a baseball bat against his chest when he did. Fear and panic grew the longer he held his breath. Involuntarily, he forced in some air. _**Wam!**_ Another hit. His teeth clenched together tightly. And everyone's fear tripled at the sight of him grimacing.

Then suddenly his body went into a series of convulsive fits, like mini Grand Mal seizures. No matter how hard he tried to breath through them, the shakes alone stole whatever breath he sustained.

No one was prepared for what came next.

Loud tormented screams issued from the teenager's mouth. He bent forward at the waist, then formed his back into an arch, his hands open and fanned. More harrowing screams ensued. Dean watched with horror as Sam's fingernails began to fall off one by one. The patches of skin wrinkled into dark leather and broke away, leaving behind raw and bloody holes. He rushed forward when Sam howled his name. His father, however, held him back with tears in his eyes. Sam had to face this alone. They all had to get through this alone.

It was a never-ending nightmare. Strands of hair fell out. The canines suddenly receded, his teeth appearing normal again. But the convulsions hadn't stop. Sam rolled over on his side giving way to the spurts of blood shooting out of his mouth. There had to have been at least a gallon of the crimson liquid pooled by the time he had finished vomiting. The wounds in his legs split open. Patches of blood emerged through, shining through his sweatpants.

After about a minute of the ongoing tortuous screams, it seemed like the process was nearly over. The convulsions began to lessen. Sam's overtaxed system seemed to have been seeing the end, his cries fading into moans. He stared straight ahead, almost absent-mindedly, the orange irises leaving and the mossy green reappearing. Dean and John held onto one another tightly, praying that it would end.

Soon Sam's body fell limp, splayed out, riddled with twitches. His eyes were at half-mast and he lay there, seemingly dead. He hadn't answered to the other's call, nor had he stirred when they tried to rouse him. John and Dean's hearts broke. It was in that moment they believed they had lost him. There was no light in his eyes. There was no warmth to his skin.

Sammy was gone. He left them forever.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: **

**Knocking on Heaven's Door…Only No One Answered.**

He was heavy.

Every part of his body was cumbersome, like lead. He couldn't move and Hell, if he could speak. One thing was good: he could still hear, unfortunately. An annoying persistent beep sounded nearby. The first and only sound he could distinguish. Then like a domino effect, he began to become conscious to everything else.

A very weird sensation transpired down in his hands, his elbows…well, actually the rest of his limps. Almost like there was a drain and plunger and all the fluid was leaving and being sucked in at the same time. It hurt. It hurt a lot. Sharp pinpricks were prominent in his elbows…possibly needlelike.

There was a metallic taste in his dry mouth. Lapping his tongue gingerly did nothing to rid of it. A round of dizziness and nausea was present. The aftermath of whatever sensation this was made him feel dazed, immobile…trapped.

Several moans escaped his parched throat. Coughing from the scratchiness, he moaned some more. Becoming more aware of the sucking feeling meant becoming more aware of the pain that followed. He slowly opened his eyes in response to it. His vision was blurry. Kinda like there was a sushi-roll film cover placed over his eyes. Fuzzy. He couldn't see anything. He blinked slowly several times. Fatigue set in causing it a strenuous effort to keep his lids up. Sam groaned some more.

"Shhh," someone said.

Next there was a hand carding through his hair, alleviating the uneasiness. Now he knew he wasn't alone in dealing with the awful experience. "Shhh," he heard it again, along with another caressing stroke.

Wanting to see who it was, he tried to keep his eyes open. It proved to be harder than he thought, involuntarily letting out a strained whimper over his plight.

"_Heeeyyyy_, it's okay. It's okay," the voice soothed and he immediately recognized it. It was Dean. His heart felt heavy and he calmed. His brother was here. He wasn't alone in some purgatory or damnation. He was still here on Earth, with his family. "Go back to sleep Sammy. The process is almost over."

Process? What process? Is that what is causing the weird sensation and prickly feelings?

"Here this will help," Dean said. He heard another beep and the sound of a plunger dropping.

_Oh maaaannnnnn…._

Immediately a bout of warmth enveloped his body erasing the pain, along with the weird dam-like sensation. Then he felt the effects over his eyes. They shut like an evac door in an emergency flood. Next the heavy curtain fell over his mind, plunging him back into the darkened oblivion he knew he'd never want to return from.

* * *

As Sam re-closed his eyes, Dean took a breather. It was the longest, relieving, most refreshing breath he had taken in awhile. His brother was alive. Sammy had pulled through. The stress of the past week had finally vanquished. It felt like he had been holding his breath since then, like wading in a murky pool.

With Sam now sleeping peacefully, it felt like his head broke free of the surface. But the pale reflection, white lips, and red circles beneath the eyes still kept some un-needed burden. He could feel the effects of the stress. Seeing his brother on all the machines, the blood-pressure monitor's beeping constantly fluctuating, and the evasive answers from the doctors; it took its toll. What mostly had him itching with apprehension was the complete stillness.

His brother hadn't moved a muscle, other than his lungs and heart working. It scared him to death, that perhaps he and his father had been too late in arriving. He hadn't slept since arriving. The anxiety was overwhelming, completely ridding any traces of repose. Staying in the leather-cushioned laid-back chair, there wasn't anything to do but watch and wait, the anxiety and fear building with every hour.

That fear instantly blew away with the wind once the soft moans of discomfort were heard. Relieving that discomfort and allowing Sam to drift back into unconsciousness was no problem. It meant that he was alive. He was fighting to stay alive. Dean breathed again. He'd done his part, though his job was not quite over. So for now he can finally relax, until his brother decided to join them again.

* * *

The next time Sam sojourned from unconsciousness, the edge of the pain was gone. There were no needle-like intrusions, mind-boggling headaches, or extreme discomfort. Though his chest remained sore, he felt better than he had in weeks.

His lids felt heavy, but once he managed to lift them a fraction, he noticed something furry lying next to his head. Curiosity forced his lids to open wider. The furry object was a dirty beige color. It had a button eye, the other eye missing with only a string of yarn visible and a tiny pink nose. Sam smiled meekly. The thing was missing an ear.

_Guppy._

Sluggishly he reached up to grab it with his left hand, and that's when he noticed he couldn't. He didn't have the energy. Having only enough reserve to tilt his head down, he found his hands stationed by his side. The dirty windowpane that was his vision cleared as though it was wiped down in Windex. It was then he noticed the IV needle inserted at the top of his knuckles and the tube attached to it, plus cotton gauze wrapped individually around his fingers. The itchy feeling and the tingle on his arms alerted that they too were completely swathed in gauze.

Quickly trying to analyze his surroundings, he realized he was lying on a rather comfortable bed, elevated at where he was slightly bent at the waist, and saw he was in a small dimly lit room with several machines around.

He made out the heart monitor with ease, but another machine set up next to his bed had him confused. It looked like a big white box with a few numbers on it. He stared at it for the longest time pondering its purpose until he saw a port handle with a red plunger button on it, kinda like a trigger device for an explosive. Instantly the synapses went off, alerting him that possibly it was the Pain Reliever Machine…and so far that was his favorite.

As the synapses kept firing, it brought full awareness of the multitude of devices hooked to his body. He felt the other wires and tubes, including a nasal cannula wrapped around his cheeks, the circular heart sensors attached to his chest, and the..._Oh God!_

Glimpsing past the port handle, his suspicions were confirmed at seeing a Foley bag suspended at the far end of the bed.

His eyes rolled upward in discontent. _Snarkleberries!_

He couldn't wait for that to be pulled!

Becoming weaker the longer he tried to make out his surroundings, he eyed Guppy, summoning up whatever strength, and slowly grabbed it, pulling the plush bunny to his chest. The effort cost him to lose his breath. Cradling the stuffed animal tighter, he fought to gain control, breathing deeply past the plastic nodules stuffed up his nose.

"I figured you might appreciate that," an unfamiliar voice spoke.

Alarmed, Sam looked around and saw to his left the speaker was his brother, sitting in a long lounge chair giving a little smirk. Sam returned a tired smirk of his own. He tried to say his name, but his throat failed him, far too raw and unused.

"Good to see you're amongst the living."

Sam kept his smile. It was good to see Dean—albeit he was appearing worse for wear. The scratches over his forehead and right cheek shined raw and painful. His temples mottled in yellow and purple. Bloody bandages covered his neck and arms. If he wasn't in a tee-shirt and jeans, the other bandages would have been detectable. Dean rose from his chair slowly, achingly. He came over and sat on the bed, patting Sam's arm.

Dean gazed at him exhaustively, his puffy bags hung definitively over dark circles. His appearance pictured him as ten years older. See what stress does to ya! "I thought you might want to have that—" he pointed at the bunny—"when you woke up. I found it in your bag. Figured I'd bring ya some clothes, so you'll have some once you're ready to get out of here."

It had to be a gift. Sam instantly knew then he was lying. There was no way of knowing if he would have woken up, or would have survived. Instantly he realized Dean did it so that he could keep his head up and not think negatively, that he was hanging onto hope. His brother was a weird one, but one stronger, there is none. But he did wonder if one of Dean's infamous smartass replies was about to take effect. He did find the bunny in the bag!

Turns out he was in for a surprise. Dean smiled. "Yeah, it turns out it was Dad. He was the one who put it on your bed, y'know before we had that big fight. Remember when he brought back one of our storage boxes from one of his lock-ups? He was going through some the old stuff and you know how he gets. Starts chucking over his shoulder and it must've landed on your bed. He even admitted to it."

Sam said nothing. Now that part was resolved. But he knew after this little experience, even if Dean had said nothing now, the time for teasing was coming. Already Dean had so much joking mileage on this one, he wouldn't be able to resist. And he didn't give a care. As a child, Guppy always brought him some form of comfort when his family couldn't. It was the last remaining emblem of his innocence. And he would forever cherish it.

His brother rubbed his arm. "Docs have ya on dialysis three times. You woke up on the second bout. The next one is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Said that they found a whole bunch of nasty things running all through your pipes. Thought screening it would get it all out."

Sam blinked tiredly. "You?"

He wondered if Dean would understand since it was all he could manage to get out was "ou". Luckily as it were Dean understood what he was meaning to ask and answered by giving him a begrudging look. "Cute…Yeah, I'm good. Other than pissing cherry for a whole week, I'll be fine," he sighed, "And I know I'm talking to a brick wall here, but only worry about yourself please."

Sam blinked appreciatively. "Wha 'appened?" his voice rasped. It sounded like he was grating wood with a cheese grater. It would've been slightly funny had it not hurt.

Dean's eyebrows furrowed as though he didn't understand the question…either that or he didn't want to answer. Sam eyed him questioningly. Dean cast his eyes down, developing a depressing look. It scared Sam a bit catching a glimpse of his oh-so-manly brother's weak side. Normally in a time like this, Dean would mask everything with sarcasm and a perky attitude. Now his feelings were out in the open, showing off to the world. It was evident that whatever had happened after Sam took the potion would forever haunt him.

Dean shrugged, slightly shaking his head. From the looks of it, he tried so hard to keep his game face on, but it was becoming more difficult with the added weight of exhaustion and stress in the mix. "It was n-nothing. You passed out and we brought you here. You do know how to sleep Sleeping Beauty. We've been here for over a week."

"Dean?" Sam called out softly. He wanted the truth and not some half-cocked version of it. He knew it was hard for his brother, but now was the time for Dean to come clean. Keeping all the emotions and fears locked up inside, it'll niggle and nag, accumulate, until finally it would burst free; and usually in Dean's case it ended up with someone hurt.

Dean obviously caught on. He sighed deeply, his eyes moistening.

_Sam's body was still, his arms and hands flopping by his sides. Dean ran in crying, carrying his limp brother. The nurses stopped, peering interested. Terror ran through him when they didn't move. The first doctor motivated to move applied a stethoscope to the limp teenager's chest…then shook his head. _

"Sammy, it was close. God, it was close," He looked like he was about to cry. His lip trembled. "You wouldn't wake up. We…we tried to wake you up, even punched you a few times, and still nothing. After that, we hauled ass. We brought you in and they immediately claimed you dead. I thought that was it. I'm so sorry…I'm so sorry. I really thought you were gone," he covered a sniffle with his hand. "But uh, it wasn't until Dad, y'know? The Almighty forced them to check again. Only then did a nurse pick something up. They had you away for so long—I swear to God I went insane. That waiting room is going to need new walls and maybe a carpet."

_His Dad sat in the chair, his legs shaking, but his hands motionless. A brown rut formed in the blue carpet from his muddy boot-tracks. He paced back and forth, erratically fisting his short hair, threatening to steal the bulbs out of their sockets, stricken with grief and worry. A balding doctor entered the tiny, bland room. His wrinkly face was expressionless._

He laughed wiping at his eyes.

"But uh…when the main doc came back out, he said they were able to keep your vitals up. Did the best they could with patching up your legs. Said that with a little PT, you'll be able to regain some ability to walk again. Y'know, improve that wobble ya got going. He also said after awhile that you were showing signs of pneumonia. They ran a bacterial culture on it and it came back positive. So those bad coughs you had…yeah I'm willing to bet that was part of it. Doc said you had it for awhile _you bitch_," he sneered, but Sam knew he didn't mean anything by it, "…and also that they found something else they couldn't identify. And that it all was 'very precarious'," he imitated the man's deep tone, causing Sam to emit a little snort.

Dean's weak smile lost all composure when another flash from the past occurred.

_They entered the room. Sam was perfectly still in a sea of white. A ventilator tube protruded from his mouth, tape running along the sides of his ashen cheeks. Bandages were taped around his arms and hands. Wires were visible stuck in, surrounding the pale body. Several IV bags hung on poles erect on both sides of the bed. An inconsistent beep sounded from the heart monitor. The doc expressed how close Sam needed to be on life support._

"But me and Dad, we knew what it was. I'm just surprised they hadn't quarantined ya. And the docs, they weren't…" he fumed, "they weren't very optimistic about your chances…But Dad and I, we had hope…And guess what, here you are. And let me just say…don't you _ever_, and I mean _ever_ put me through this again. Or so help me, I'll kill you myself."

And enter sarcasm.

Sam knew he wouldn't have been able to hold it back for long. Being emotionally outspoken and sensitive was never one of Dean's strong suits. Sam coughed a little, grimacing at the strain it put on his chest. Holding back another one, he gazed appreciatively.

Sam took a deep breath. "Whe-where's D-dad?"

"Over there," Dean bobbed his head outwards, "He's asleep. Hasn't left this room in…hmmm, awhile. I was about to wake his ass up and tell him to get a shower. Cuz jeez, any minute the flies are about to find a new home."

Snorting a short laugh, Sam turned, resting his head on his shoulder. John slept sprawled out in a chair with his neck askew at an angle. Dean rose off the bed and went over and prodded his shoulder, jerking him awake. "Hey," he said tiredly, "He's awake."

Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, John immediately bounced up, shuffling across the small space, peering into the exhausted eyes of his child. He smiled, rubbing the side of Sam's face. He too was heavily bruised, no doubt to the brawn's match with Willis. "Hey son, how're you feeling?"

"Tired," Sam slurred, blinking heavily. He coughed at the tickle in his throat.

John sat on the bed beside Sam's hip; Dean resuming his place on Sam's other side. "You in any pain?"

"Just a little," he replied in a whisper. "But it's fine."

"That's good."

"Dad? Is it over?"

John caught the worried glint in his son's eyes and the concern laced in his raspy voice. It came as a comfort to know he could finally reassure his boy without having to lie. "Yeah Sam. It's over," he took up Sam's flaccid hand, kneading little circles into the pale skin. "You don't have to worry about a thing now. Just get better. Take your time and we'll be here for you all the way."

At that, Sam's first instinct was to go for the holy water. But given that he could hardly move, his only option was to just lie there and pray for the best. This was completely different than his father's usual hard-ass routine. Sam was expecting at least a "How-are-you-really-feeling-so-we-can-get-on-the-road?", so this came as a shocker.

"No hunts?" his scratchy voice rasped.

John gave a good-natured smile. Sam hadn't seen that in a while. "No hunts. No scams. No quick skipping out of town. No nothing. Not until you're one hundred percent and the doc gives the okay to leave. I know that should make you happy."

Hell yes that made him happy! That meant not another move for a while. He'd be doing jumping jacks if he could. Still in shock, all Sam could do in reply was nod. He gave a little smile as relief opened up like the sun breaking through cloudy cover.

Sam relaxed, at ease now that the main enemy was vanquished…that he didn't have to look under the bed (even if he was at a time he was the monster he feared). It was a rough ride. Everything that transpired seemed to have happened so long ago. The game. Calvin's home. The attack in the motel. His illness frenzy. Willis grappling his arm….

That struck a chord. _Whoa…that guy!_

Aware of how increasingly difficult inhaling was becoming the longer he was awake, he paced himself pulling in long deep breaths. "D-dad? Wha…bout…guy…the…man?"

Again he wondered if he was understood. From the darkened look his father suddenly produced at the mention of the hunter Willis…yep, the question was understood.

John frowned. "Willis? Yeah, he skedaddled the first chance he got. Right when we took ya to the hospital. If he knew what was good for him, he'd never show up again."

"Yeah, Dad gave him one good pounding. He wasn't going to let him just walk away with what he did to you," Dean cut in.

"He?"

Dean's confusion deepened. "He took ya, remember? Tried to use you as bait. We were on our way to Pastor Jim's house, and then out of the blue…bam! Got one on us. We first thought it was Calvin, but when we got to his house and the thing showed up, that's when we knew it had to be Willis."

In his momentarily slow comprehension, that was a mouthful to digest. But he mainly got the gist. Willis kidnapped him and Dad and Dean went to Leann's house. _Wait…_

_Leann!_

He gasped. If the monster was at her house, then what happened to her? The shock of it made it harder to breathe.

"Leann," he croaked. Peering at his brother with trepidation, he managed to ask, "Monster…Leann's house. Wha' happened…her. Is…she…okay?"

Sudden dread filled his heart when he saw Dean cast his eyes down upon realizing he had spoken too much. Sam began to get upset. "Dean," he pleaded, "Is she okay?"

Dean glanced at their father first before settling back down on Sam. Though expressionless, his father's eyes read 'you dug your grave, now its time to lie in it'. He sighed in defeat. Shaking his head solemnly, he replied, "No Sammy. She's not. She…uh, she didn't make it."

A sharp pang shot through Sam's chest. His fist tightened around his father's hand. Complete and total devastation washed over him like a flash flood. Leann…dead? His friend. His one and only friend…gone? He shook his head in denial. "No. No. Wha'…Was it the monster?"

The uncertainty on his brothers' face deepened. And in the next second there was regret. "Sam, you gotta understand…"

A force of horror and devastation struck when he said that.

"…we didn't have a choice. She was bitten just like you and she turned…only," Dean's breath hitched, struggling to find the right words. "Only you somehow…you kept your humanity, you were still 'you' and…but she wasn't. She wasn't human anymore and…came at us…"

Sam didn't need to hear anymore. He knew what he meant and what was done. And that hurt even worse.

With his own despair growing, Dean tried to console. "Sam, I'm sorry. I really am." He looked at his father once again, who still remained silent as if he had nothing good and reassuring to say.

Sam let out several sniffles, working hard against the roiling emotions. If he were physically fit and sound, he'd probably alert the entire hallway with his emotional outburst. But his sounds of distraught only carried out to the door.

"Noooo! My best friend…my best friend! Why? Why does this keep happening to me…why?"

Shock was still present, guilt worming its way in. How was it fair that he survived and Leann hadn't? She was an innocent in all of this. The pang shot again. Then suddenly he couldn't breathe. His chest tightened along with his throat constricting. Coughing only intensified the pain. Squeezing his Dad's hand, he struggled to inhale. The result ending in another coughing fit. Tears sprang, his face turned crimson as the force of the harsh barks and the struggle to get over them multiplied.

"Sam?" John called out.

He couldn't stop.

"Sammy?" Dean leaned forward.

Rolling over, Sam pressed his face into the bed, accidentally knocking Guppy off as he clawed at the sheets. John patted his back. It did nothing. The expunging coughs were like mini explosions, tearing at the insides of his chest cavity. They were incredibly painful. He cringed desperately trying to pull in oxygen. His Dad thumped him another good one, still with the same result.

Strangled gasps suddenly sounded. His eyes lost control and rolled up. A heavy fog invaded his mind setting off various alarms. Over the ringing in his ears, he could hear his father calling out for help, whilst his brother continued to pat his back, elevating his head. No matter what, both attempts seemed futile. The black edges of his vision grew larger, threatening to claim him.

Dean increased the number and strength of hits to his brother's back. "Sam. Sam. Come on, breathe. Come on, you can do it. Dammit! We need help in here!"

Help soon arrived in the form of a tall nurse that Dean swore up and down resembled Nurse Betty. She was sharp, immediately recognizing the signs of a panic attack. It didn't help that the patient had pneumonia. Rushing forward, Betty grabbed an oxygen mask hung on an O2 tank suspended on the wall. Cranking the dial, she hopped on the bed, cupping the mask over the boy's mouth and nose, pulling the strap over his head.

"Okay sweetie. Just breathe. Long and deep," she directed in a smooth cool tone. Sam jerked, his hands fanning out in agony. Whipping around, Betty adjusted the O2 volume.

Sam continued to cough, the condensation inside the mask turning a bright orange. Placing a knee into the small of the teenager's back, with one hand pulled his right shoulder back whilst tapping carefully on his sternum with her other. "Come on sweetie, you can do it. Keep your shoulders back, it'll give your chest more room to breathe…come on, deep and slow," she issued along with more directions.

Soon the coughs and wheezes began to decrease in length and volume. Both Dean and John stood back transfixed, completely and utterly horrified. Dean was the worst out of the two. His brother's state was terrifying. Sam's irises nearly disappeared up into their sockets, nothing but white showed. It was as though he were about to have a seizure. As the nurse did her thing trying to stabilize his sibling, Dean felt his whole body go numb. The sight was disturbing and he wasn't sure if he would be able to endure it all. Not entirely surprised, his legs went out from under him.

"Dean!" John called out racing over to his son puddled on the ground. He glanced at the nurse who told him to sit him up. It wasn't like she could jump off the bed and attend to the one who collapsed at that minute. The kid with the breathing issues had to calm down first.

"Marie!" Betty called loudly. Having another nurse in there sounded like a better option. "Marie! Get in here."

Seconds later, the form of a petite brunette nurse in pink scrubs came running in. Taking in the scene, the nurse quickly followed orders from Betty to see the brother. She was gentle. Taking up his one arm, with the help of John, pulled him up into the lounge chair. Calmly expressing to the father to take a step back, she immediately began taking the eldest vitals.

The other nurse had finally gotten through to the youngest. Sam's eyes finally closed, his breaths evening out. She took off the mask, wiping it and stowing it back on the wall, before carefully pulling him into a more comfortable position, raising the blankets up to his shoulders.

For Dean, it took a long moment to realize that a nurse was checking his vitals. Soon he snapped out of his temporary daze, with confusion taking its place afterwards. One minute he was staring in horror as a nurse was beating on Sammy and the next his mind was swirling in a lot of colors. He hadn't known he collapsed: Had to have been more tired than he thought. Once back in reality, he sat up and was forcefully pushed back. That's when he noticed Marie. She was speaking, but it was like she was a mime. He couldn't hear, much less understand. And at that moment, he supposed he really didn't care.

"Sammy," he mumbled turning to the side to look at Sam. He calmed somewhat to see his sibling appearing to be in a deep sleep. The blue tinge that recently took over his brother's lips had vacated. The nurse who saw to Sam smoothed over the teenager's blanket, adjusting a few things on the wires. Not quite sure if it was appropriate, he took a long deep breath. He tried to listen to Marie's orders and look at his brother, but as he learned multi-tasking was hard.

The volume in his ears turned up when the Nurse Betty walked over to John, who was all too strung out now. Dean was afraid one poke and he'd explode like a piñata. He overheard her say that what occurred with Sam, to her, looked like a severe panic attack, and with the pneumonia, it put severe strain on his airway. Dean's concern still floated around like an unneeded fly, but he had calmed once she stated that all he needed to do was calm down. She increased his oxygen on the cannula in case. But if they kept him stress-free, he should be fine.

By the time Nurse Betty finished recounting her assessment; Nurse Marie finished her examination and came over to report. "His heartbeat is a little fast. And his reaction time has slowed considerably. My guess is that he's just exhausted. Judging from his appearance alone, I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case."

Betty nodded understandably. "Okay," she turned to Dean, "That means young man, nighty-night. We can give you something to help with that."

Still slumped in his lounge chair, Dean shook his head at the suggestion. "No…I'm…I'm good."

"No sweetie you really need to rest. If you keep this up, then your body's about to go kaput," Betty said in a motherly kindness.

Appreciative for the concern, Dean still shook his head.

"Dean. Knock it off. You heard the nurses. They're right, it's time to get a bit of shut eye," John cut in.

"Daadd," he slurred. "Seriously I'm fine. I wanna be awake when Sam does. I have a lot of explaining to do. I'll be fine."

"Maybe I haven't made myself clear," his father spoke in that general-like tone he knew so well, "You need to sleep. Sammy is not going anywhere and he won't be awake for a while. You'll have plenty of time to think of what to say to him. So either you go to sleep on your own or we'll hold you down and give you a sedative."

Dean huffed in defeat. He didn't need this. But also he knew that with his father siding with the nurse's, this battle was over. Sometimes you have to cut your losses. "Alright fine, but only a few hours. And go ahead and give me the sedative. I'm having anxiety attacks like nobodies business. I won't be able to zonk out on my own."

His statement obviously took the other three by surprise. It was written all over their faces, especially his father's. He would have laughed, but he so wasn't in the mood.

Soon after the nurses left, Marie came back in and had given him a hefty dose of a transparent liquid, and he was asleep and floating in dreams with beaches and nude women quicker than you can say 'wam bam thank you ma'me'.

After his other son went silent, John crossed over somberly, picking up the fallen stuffed animal and placing it inside the crook of Sam's arm. He patted the teenager's arm, running a hand along his cheek, checking him all over to see he was comfortable before coming over and doing the same thing with Dean.

Then, dragging his feet, he made for his chair, plopping down into his seat. The seat was so overused, it molded to his body perfectly. His head plunged into his hand as an overwhelming feeling cast down upon him. Now he had two sons to worry for. Sammy's sudden bout nearly sent him over the abyss of insanity. Now becoming aware of Dean's lack of self-caring inched him closer to the precipice. While his focus was on one child, his other was slipping through the cracks. And all of this could have been avoided had he not taken on this mission. He huffed. This life of hunting was really starting to take its toll. He could happily admit it: their lives were really messed up.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: **

**There's a Monster Inside all of Us**

The next morning dawned bright and early through the blinds. Dean woke with a start feeling the sizzling warmth of the sun's rays across his face. Blinking awake, he saw his Dad once again asleep with his neck at an awkward angle. Checking the time, he grumbled at seeing it was in the early hours of the morning…the next morning. The sedative had clonked him out good.

Standing up, stretching out the kinks, he turned to see his baby brother soundly asleep. Guilt festered about the way he relayed to Sam about the demise of his friend. Though the much-needed sleep gave him a somewhat renewed physicality, he still hadn't a clue on how he was going to make it up to said little brother. Coming over to sit on Sam's bed, he picked up the flaccid hand, verifying that his brother was still alive. Sam scrunched his eyebrows at the contact.

There was a knock at the door. Dean looked up to see Nurse Betty and the doctor who originally gave his brother's diagnosis walk in. The doc smiled brightly with a perky hop in his step, evident that he had one too many cups of caffeine.

"Good morning Mr. Winchester. How are you doing?" the doc asked.

Dean shrugged, emitting out a long yawn. He noticed out of the corner of his eye Betty pull on a pair of surgical gloves.

"Ah," he replied, "And how is our patient doing?"

"Still asleep. And how are you doing doc?" Dean asked, not really caring.

The eyes beamed and the smile widened. "I'm quite the chipper. Thanks for asking. Anyway, I'm here to change your brother's bandages. It would probably be better to allow him a few more hours to sleep, but we didn't have a chance to change them yesterday and so we can't risk an infection starting. So I figured we might as well get them out of the way now before we have to start his third treatment of dialysis. Okay?"

Dean shrank back in close apprehension. That was a mouthful and the man spoke like he was on speed-dial. Mainly he got out of it was change bandages and dialysis. Whatever!

"Sure. But, uh, just FYI, when you wake him up, he might a little cranky," he warned.

The happy-go-lucky doc waved, also pulling on a pair of gloves. "That's no problem," he took the wraps and tapes from Betty, placing them on the nearby table. "Okay, now to wake up our youngster. Sam?" he gently shook the boy's shoulder. "Sam? We need you to wake up. Come on, just for a few minutes."

Sam stirred, groaning a bit.

"Come on Sammy. Wake up," Dean rubbed his arm. He turned to the doc, "Why can't you change them when he's asleep?"

"True. But it would be easier if he was awake while we change the ones on his back first," the doc answered.

"Oh okay," Dean shrugged. "Come on Sammy. Wakey wakey."

Sam finally opened his eyes a fraction. Scrunching up his face, he whispered, "It's bright in here. _Gah_, too bright."

Betty instantly flipped the switch casting a dim light around. Sam calmed. Blinking open his eyes again, he looked into the face of the doctor. "Wha…goin'…on?"

"It's okay. We just need to change your bandages, starting with your back. Then you can go back to sleep," he informed.

Sam blinked tiredly. "Okay."

Together with Dean's help, the doc and nurse lifted him into a sitting position. Gently they laid his chest against his brother. With hardly any energy still, Sam's head hung back as he was lifted, falling forward onto Dean's shoulder, closing his eyes. The staff went to work in untying the back of his blue gown, revealing all the white bloody patches decorating his back. Dean hissed. They didn't look too nice.

Sam jerked and moaned little as they pulled off the tape and applied dressing to each wound. Dean constantly cooed and shushed him, alerting him that they were almost done.

At one point Dean asked Sam, "How're you doing?"

His little brother moaned out, "I'm hungry."

"You're hungry?" Dean smiled, happy that possibly his saying so was meaning something. He chuckled delightfully when Sam nodded against his shoulder.

Betty ripped off another gauze pad, pressing an acute spot on Sam's back causing the teenager to growl.

Curious, Dean gawked at the back of Sam's head. _Did Sammy just growl?_

The staff took no notice, continuing their work. They pulled off another bandage quite forcefully yanking at the skin the tape adhered to. Another growl echoed, growing louder and in length. Dean tensed, eying the back of his brother's head more fearfully.

"Sammy?"

Said little brother didn't reply. Suddenly the air whooshed out of Dean's lungs as he was thrown off the bed. He landed near his father on his back. Glancing up, winded, he cried out in horror. Sam was now standing, lifting the doc up by his throat. The eyes were back, the teeth, the claws; everything else he once was…

The monster…

It was born again.

Nurse Betty screamed backing away covering her mouth with her hands. Sam jiggled the doc in his grip, swiping with his free hand, taking the doc's jaw clean off. Hearing the piercing screams, John jumped up out of his chair. Sam eyed him hungrily dropping the dead man to the floor. With incredible speed, the monster leapt forward meeting Betty first, slashing out his arm angrily. He hit her with enough force; she catapulted straight through the glass window, falling down the four stories.

Transfixed with terror, John stood frozen. Sam flitted towards him, the orange irises beaming, eager for the kill. Raising his claws, Sam slashed his father to ribbons. Long bloody marks etched over his face, chest, and arms.

John did nothing, but gasped falling to his knees. Grasping him by the hair, Sam lowered down and bit out a large meaty chunk of his father's throat. Blood spurted, trailing down in one large river. The father gurgled and choked, grasping at his neck. With one last gurgle, John fell over dead.

Blood all coursed down Sam's chin and gown. His chunk-filled serrated teeth shined with the light as he gulped down the chunk of his father's flesh. Dean took one glance at his father, then back to Sam, then back to his father's body, at the blood forming a bright red pool fast. The sight was horrifying.

Looking at Sam, he called, "Sammy!"

The head slowly turned. There was no recognition in the orange pupils. No boyish qualities or whatever used to signify his brother's personality. Sam was gone. Crooking his head to the side, the fiend ambled toward him with its mouth wide open, roaring. Dean crab crawled up to the wall.

"Sammy stop! Sammy, it's me!"

The monster continued to stalk onward.

"Sammy no!" his back reached the wall. "Sammy!"

The monster grunted a deep laugh. Soon he was hovering overtop of him. His hands flexed out, raised, intent to slaughter.

Dean gasped, raising his hands over his face, prepared. "SAMMY!"

The pawed hand came down fast.

* * *

Dean snapped awake, springing from his lounge chair. His senses had gone haywire. Spinning around, clutching his eyes, he concentrated on overpowering the neurotic mess he was in. Slowly taking in large inhales the buzz began to recede. Uncovering his eyes, he anxiously took in everything. The room was quiet. Clean. Not bloody.

Darting his eyes to his brother, he exhaled deeply seeing Sam lay calmly curled on his side with Guppy tucked under an arm. His bloodshot eyes bulged. His heart pounded. Sweat beaded on his brow. The air flowing to his lungs constricted, causing him to pant greedily at the air. The lasting effects of the nightmare surged through his system, making him queasy. He coughed, hunched over, gaining a full grip on things. The dream was so vivid, he swore he was about to have a heart attack. If he doesn't cut back on the burgers and saturated foods, he very soon will be.

Straightening back up, his eyes scanned the room, seeing his Dad asleep in his little chair with his head hinged off the back of the chair, his mouth open. He turned back to Sam, his heart still hammering against his chest. Fear over what occurred in his dream had him race over around the bed. Bending over, he carefully lifted one of Sam's eyelids to check. His heart wouldn't stop pounding if he hadn't. Raising the lid only so much, his breath hitched at seeing the green iris. Relief coursed through him and he felt like he could drop a load right then and there.

Flattening a patch of Sam's hair that stood askew, Dean pulled the blanket up over his sibling's shoulders. The daunting effect the nightmare left still had him tense with unease. He needed some fresh air.

Leaving hastily, he accidentally bumped into Nurse Betty, or Celia as stated off her nametag. Not bothering to apologize, he carried on, not slowing or stopping until he barged through the lobby exit, gulping greedily at the moist air.

The air felt nice. It was cool and brisk, hardly sultry for a late May day. He padded out to the hospital's little courtyard area, mainly for long-stay patients to come and enjoy the outside. Coming to the large pedestal-type fountain in the center of the courtyard, he paused, admiring the water's constant flow. The trickling sounds somewhat soothed his mind. It had been a long hard two weeks. Obvious by how staring fondly at a waterworks display was rekindling his spirit. He was still at ease even when a bright pink butterfly flew by.

Then after about a minute, his manhood kicked in. And it was then the realization of him standing in an awkward pose seemingly envious of a fountain dawned on him. _Oh spare me. Any longer that I stare at this wretched thing, I'm about to grow long hair and wear peace signs. _Another butterfly appeared, flapping by his nose. He swatted at it.

The pines and oaks stirred as a soft breeze blew through. It felt nice, clean, carrying with it a scent of spiced pumpkin. His lungs expanded to their fullest extent. Opening his eyes, he noticed there were a few more butterflies. It was like they propagated. Looking around, he bucked back at the sight of dozens of small flapping bugs encircling him. It slightly creeped him out.

After swiping a dozen or so times, it finally occurred to him that the butterflies were not leaving. Glimpsing ahead, he saw they made a trail heading towards the woods. Getting the picture, Dean followed, his curiosity gaining the high yard.

They little flappers led him across the small flat patch before entering into the deciduous timberland. He hadn't had far to travel. A small brook lay ahead; the butterflies leading him in that direction. It wasn't long before he slowly trod down a small embankment. There at the base of the brook sat a girl, scribbling Druid signs in the mud with a twig. The shiny raven hair was the giveaway. It was the perky _Sabrina_-wannabe Anya.

He should've known. Only Anya would have lured him away via bugs.

Without saying a word, he took a seat beside her, staring straight ahead at the beautiful greens, reds, and yellows the woods displayed.

Anya smiled, still etching into the dirt. "How is your brother?"

Dean felt at ease. "They say he's going to be fine. He's still pretty weak, but he just needs plenty of fluids and rest. Same old same old." He crossed his legs into an Indian-style. Smiling, he continued, "Dad says we're gonna be out of the hunt for awhile, but that won't be a problem for Sammy. And it's probably a good thing, cuz I'm tired."

Anya said nothing. The drawings were put on hold as she listened, but her gaze never left the flowing water. It was as though she were anticipating something.

A niggling feeling settled in Dean's gut. He grew anxious, nervous, his throat constricting on what he knew he had to say. "But, uh…Anya…I…" he swallowed. "I have to thank you."

"It sounds like that was difficult for you."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, kinda. You have to understand that I am a hunter. In my line of work, when we find out about something that could be harmful or dangerous, we put it down, no questions asked. We can't take the risk of something going you know, _Girl, Interrupted._ So that's why it's so hard. And I guess…I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything that's happened to you and your family."

Finally the witch turned his way. There was a bright shine of surprise written all over her facial. "A hunter apologizing? And sincerely I might add? Now that's not something you hear everyday."

"Yeah," Dean chuckled lightly. "Well, they say there's a first for everything."

"True."

"But again, why didn't you tell me you were a witch?" Dean asked earnestly.

Anya furrowed an eyebrow, gaping at him like he was stupid. "Why do you ask questions when you already know the answer to them?"

Dean shrugged. "But I thought possibly you could tell me…thought we had something going on."

"Yes," she nodded, "but then don't you keep secrets to keep the ones you cherish safe?"

Dean bucked his head back. He didn't think of it that way. And it comforted him to know that it was true. He had lied and kept secrets many times before, especially to his brother. No one was hurt now that he had come to think of it. He was suddenly relieved; thankful he wasn't alone in the matter, feeling free like a heavy burden was lifted off his shoulders.

Anya smiled, reading from his expression he was enlightened. So it was only appropriate to kill the mood. "Dean, I am a witch. A good witch, but nevertheless something unnatural. And I'll always be hunted. It's the nature of humans to kill those whom they do not understand, those they fear. For those of the otherworldly such as myself, all we can do is learn to adapt and overcome…avoid the human species if need be. There isn't any other choice. I've accepted that now."

A gut-wrenching spasm hit Dean's gut. It pained him to know he was apart of the group she feared.

"People will never change," Anya continued. "Except you. Only you puzzle me. You're not like the others."

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "I'm not sure. Is that a good thing or bad thing?"

She shrugged. "I cannot answer, for it could be either. You gave me a chance long before you needed my help to save your brother. You didn't batten me down or give me the cold shoulder, even after I gave you the signs. You saw me…for me, and not what I was born. You…you have filled me with hope. Hope that not everyone will ostracize me because I'm different and that not all hunters are the same, and that I can sleep easier at night. It's a good feeling."

Dean blushed.

"And so I have to _thank you_. You've taught me a great lesson. There's a monster inside of all us, Dean. Hungry. Angry. Chained by civilization and its rules. And the anger only grows with time. But you've taught me it's not a matter of living in fear of its escape, but only a matter of how we use it. It makes us strong, affected only by our choices," another big smile flourished across her pointy pale face. "Your brother showed me that as well. He could've easily refused the potion choosing to live in a life of darkness and blood, but he didn't. Even when he knew that it could've killed him."

_Well, that's probably because he knew either he was going to die by that or by Dad's gun. Either way he drew the short stick_, Dean thought.

Anya gave him a pointed look, almost like she had read his thoughts. "So again, thank you. Goodbye Dean. I hope to see you again." She leaned over and planted a soft kiss on his cheek.

Stunned, Dean remained motionless. A touch of euphoria cascaded over his mind, and he felt like he could keel over happy at that moment. It had been too long he had waited for that. Anya moved beside him.

"Anya?" Dean called out to stop her.

Too late, she performed an _I dream of Genie_ and blinked of out sight. The butterflies circled around in her place.

Her departure left a void in Dean's heart. He longed to get to know her, to feel her kindred spirit once more. But to his surprise, instead of that void filling with loneliness and misery, it filled with warmth and a new fondness for life. In that one moment, he didn't hate himself. He, as a hunter, had spared her life; and in return, not only had she saved Sam, but also she left him feeling like a new person. That he could be someone else other than a mindless soldier taking orders.

It was a good feeling.

And now, he believed he could accomplish anything. And that included on making up to a sick little brother. The witch had given him strength. And as a hunter, he never thought that would be possible.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24:**

**Understanding**

A long miserable groan interrupted the dead silence.

Dean peeked out from over the _Muscle Car_ magazine to his little brother sprawled on his stomach with his head buried into the mattress. "You okay Sammy?" he asked, even if he knew the question to be inane.

He was met with another groan. Sam was sweaty, pale, and limp. That much was evident by the kid leaning partly off the bed, his right arm hanging like Eeyore's tail; pinned on with no use. Sam rolled his eyes, blinking back the haze. "Ugh…I'm ill," he croaked, coughing.

Dean gazed at him peculiarly. "No shit bro," he pointed out. "You have one hell of a fever. You want some water?"

It took a moment's pause for Sam to consider what was said. Once it finally registered through his muddled mind, all that he could manage to say was "yea sur." His throat was parched, like he had overindulged in a weekend's worth of Texas Chile with no _Pepsi Max_ to quench it, leaving it achy and red raw every time he used it. Even to swallow had become a less-than-desirable action. His body felt like it had been dipped into a lava-pit, the sauna-of-a-room hardly aiding in defusing. So the water suggestion sounded like a gold mine.

Even though the answer barely came out a choked whisper, Dean understood what was said. Immediately he put down his magazine, leaving it open to the cover's forest-green _68'Ford Mustang_, and reached for the half-filled glass on the bedside table, reserved for special occasions like this one. Sam could hardly roll over to give him room to sit. With a small smile, Dean kindly helped his brother over onto his back and gently placed the glass to his lips. Sam slurped at the cool liquid greedily, almost inhaling it.

"Whoa. Take it easy there," Dean teased, tilting the glass back when Sam began to cough. "That's a good boy."

Sam finished, falling back onto the overused, over-wrinkled pillow exhausted. Dean replaced the glass just as Sam coughed some more, his face scrunched up in pain at the onslaught of harsh, pulverizing hacks. "Ugh…" he grimaced, once the attack settled. "I'm so s-sick o-of c-coughing."

"Eh well, guess they need to up that dosage in your cough suppressant. Just keep drinking some more water and it'll help," Dean reassured, patting Sam's chest—instantly jerking back when Sam bucked and emitted out a forced "Aah" at the touch. "Sorry. Sorry," he apologized, forgetting that Sam's chest was real sore.

"It's okay," Sam wheezed, softly glaring. "Just don't do it again."

"Knock. _Knock_," someone called from the doorway.

Both boys' attentions turned to see the jovial doc coming in with yet another exuberant grin. "It's about noon boys and it's time for Sam's third treatment," he said showing his flashy straight opaque teeth.

"Oh maaannnn," Sam groaned, shrinking back further into his covers.

"Yes there Sam," the doc went on. "It should only take a few hours, but we'll give you something to go to sleep to help the process go a little faster. Would you like that?"

Sam huffed. "What I would really l-like Doc is a lawn chair, a good spot on the beach, and a heavy cocktail," he replied sarcastically.

Both Dean and the doc chuckled at that. "Wouldn't we all? Celia will be coming in a few minutes with the machine. The quicker we get this over with, the quicker you can be on the road to recovery."

"Sou…sounds g-good," Sam coughed, closing his eyes.

Squeaking and the unmistakable sound of wheels rolling brought their attention to the doorway again, where not two seconds later a large towering cart Dean had only seen twice was pushed into the room. A flash of the blonde nurse's scream along the glass shattering flitted by making him jerk. He scrunched his eyes tight for a brief second, settling the frayed nerves still wracked from the vivid dream he had that morning, opening them again to see the cart now beside the bed.

Celia, aka Nurse Betty, had with her an uplifting smile, almost outmatching the doc's. _What is it happy hour, or something? _Dean couldn't quite comprehend the happy atmosphere; it was a tad creepy!

Sam eyed the machine with a particular curiosity, his expression blank, but his eyes gleaming brightly laggardly following the uncoiling of the tubes and cords. He said nothing as Celia began to set up the needle-insert into the port stationed at the crook of his elbow. His breath caught in his throat and he gasped slightly, the aftermath leaving him a bit shaky and panting.

The doc caught it before anyone else. "You alright Sam? Are you having shortness of breath?"

Dean looked on with a mix between concern and curiosity. That concern upped a notch when his brother gave a short nod. "What can you do about that doc?"

"We can put on a mask to help. There's nothing else we can do but make sure he lays flat and elevated."

"Okay. Ya hear that Sammy? On up ya get," he coached, helping the doc and nurse pull his brother up into a flat position. Sam complied mostly without complaint, which struck Dean as odd, but he didn't argue. Sam for most part of his mature life had always fought for his independence, reprimanding, or in short, just plain bit your head off anytime someone tried to help. The kid really had to be sick to not protest and that only spurred on his big brother mode.

As soon as Sam appeared to be comfortable, Dean watched as the machine once again went about draining his little brother's precious blood to be siphoned, screened and returned. Sam didn't flinch, nor moaned of any discomfort. He hardly moved a beat when the doc secured the hated oxygen mask around his mouth to aide the difficulty of breathing. Long blinks began and Dean knew then he was in the midst of unconsciousness.

He patted his arm. "Get some sleep Sammy. It'll be over before you know it. Meanwhile I'm…" he looked around, nodding, "I'm going to go check on Dad."

Sluggishly he rose from his chair, traipsing in a line behind the doc and nurse in search for his missing father who recently said he was out to get a cup of coffee. In that second before he reached the threshold, the stout burly figure of his father loomed in the doorway.

Dean huffed, faltering to a sudden halt. "I was just on my way to go look for you. I need some form of entertainment. Where've you been?"

"Sorry," John smiled, sipping from the steaming cup in his hands. "Was caught up in the in the café, watching the news."

"Oh," Dean headed back to his luxury seat. "What did it say?"

John continued to stand by the doorway. "Ah you know," he smirked, "still on the lookout for our mysterious killer."

"Oh," Dean smiled, "Wish them Luck."

John nodded towards his sleeping child. "How's he doing? Any better?"

The big brother merely shook his head. "He just started the last treatment. He'll be out for hours. And it's a good thing too, because his fever struck up again."

At the brief information, John nodded heading back to his assigned seat in the corner.

Dean huffed. More than anything he would have preferred to not talk about _it_. But there wasn't other time than the present. He exhaled out, biding his time. God only knew how his father would react…not pleasantly probably. "You know Dad, we have a lot to make up for to Sam. You know that right?"

"What do you mean?"

"Uh, how 'bout everything Dad," Dean said, "Like everything we did to him, on this hunt. He wouldn't be in here if weren't for our stupidity."

"Dean, stop it. I'm in no mood for this," John retorted harshly.

"No disrespect sir, but when are you ever in the mood for this?"

The look upon John's face at the lash was enough to give Dean confidence to go on. Typically when a comment like that ever made the stage, he'd bow his head submissively and beg to get his punishment done and over with. Now he stood his ground in his brother's place. There was something that needed to be said, for it was time to be released of its burden. And now he wanted to be rid of it for good.

"Dad, you heard what the doc said. He was coming down with this a hell of a lot longer before anything happened. And don't tell me you didn't notice. Because if I noticed, I know you did," he went on without blinking. "I know you're thinking it, so I'm gonna say it out loud. _We fucked up_. We were more concerned about how to figure out this case then we were of making sure everyone was fit and okay for this. And Sam, y'know, he didn't deserve it this time. All this time he didn't say anything…until one morning he did tell me he didn't feel good, but I pulled a 'you' and passed it off as him shirking around."

One of John's most infamous scowled now found its place set on his eldest. His lips were pressed so tight, they appeared as too milky white lines. "Then how do you suggest we make it up to him?" he asked rather snidely.

"I don't think we can. Cuz I can tell you one thing, he doesn't trust us now. Probably never did. But we gotta do something."

"Like what?"

"We gotta be there for him now. When he wants advice, we give it to him. When he wants to go somewhere, we let him. Give him some sort of freedom, because if we don't, we're gonna lose him for good."

"You know with Sam…I don't think it's going to be that easy," John sounded unsure

"But we have to try," Dean reasoned. "I'm not kidding like I was before. He might leave us and you know as well as I do that kid is capable of it. And then what? So yeah, we gotta do something…take a break for a while or something. Okay?"

John shook his head. "So are you suggesting we should stop looking for your mother's killer all together?"

"Hell no!" Dean exclaimed, totally affronted. "No! I want that thing dead as much as you do. But not if it's going to tear us apart, running ourselves into the ground almost. Mom wouldn't want us to do that, that I know."

John took another long sip from his coffee, mostly hiding behind it. Dean wondered if he ever would return from the savory goodness of hospital-flavored mocha latte. To his surprise, John did, slowly peeling the lid away, swirling the steaming contents with a look of pure contemplation. "Do you really think he would do it?"

Dean softened his gaze. "Most definitely," he emphasized with an added smirk. "With the way we've been acting lately, I'm surprised he hasn't left yet. And I know we have to be hard on him, but that doesn't mean we have to push him away. And that's exactly what we're doing. Now he may or may not go to college. He definitely has the will to go. So really what I'm saying is, what I'm trying to say is, let's give him a chance. Let him know that he does have a family that will support him in whatever he does…"

"We can't let him go Dean. It's not safe out there," John interjected.

Dean licked his lips, leaning forward in his hardened plastic chair. "Look at this way Dad. If we don't at least take off the chains, he'll break free and we'll never see him again. Do you want that?"

"Why all of a sudden are you on his side? Why are you all for him going off into the real world, and not be apart of this family, doing what we do."

"How do you know that Sam is going to do this forever? We made our choice. It's too late for us. But he hasn't yet. He could actually go out there and have a chance for a normal life," Dean countered the harsh accusation. "Now I'm not saying let him go, give him up, or get rid of him. Not at all. I love my little brother. But after this experience, I realized I don't want to lose him at all. And I guarantee you if we keep doing what we're doing, we will. I'd much rather see him from time to time, happy, than dragging him around everywhere where he's unhappy. He's not a great person to be around when he's in a bad mood, which I'm sure you've noticed. So all in all, why don't we give him a chance? Give him a break for once."

John huffed, now returning his lingering gaze back on the Styrofoam cup. "I'll think about it."

"Well you better think quick sir," Dean mumbled, looking away.

Not another word was spoken between the two Winchesters for a good while when at that moment, a woman dressed in a black-velvet dress and cardigan entered. Dean sat up straighter in his chair taking in the blonde hair, and twinkling periwinkle eyes. The woman smiled and Dean immediately felt his mouth sag and his body go numb.

"Hi…uh sorry to intrude, but is this Sam's room?" She spoke in an abnormally high-pitched tone.

"Yes," John answered blatantly, "Shhh, he's still asleep."

"Oh sorry. Well I'm Linda Cole. I'm the school's head nurse…"

_A little young for a school nurse, hmm hmmm hmm,_ Dean thought.

"…Well anyways I came by to see how Sam's doing," the young nurse said.

"He's getting better. Real tired, but he's hanging in there. Just finished with his third bout of dialysis," Dean answered this time, before his dad had the chance.

"What was it that he came down with?"

"Pneumonia. That's what the doc said."

Linda jerked her head in confusion. "Dialysis for pneumonia? That doesn't make any sense. Is he diabetic?"

At that Dean became unsure how to answer, only that a debate of No, Yes, No, Yes, raged on. "No-er…yeah. Yeah he is," he grinned.

"Oh. Funny, I didn't see it in his file," Linda mumbled, "but I'm glad he's seems to be doing better now. I became real worried when he didn't show up for school the entire week. He wasn't doing so well in my office the other day."

"What are you talking about?" Both John and Dean said in unison.

"That's why he came home late from school. He—"

"Wait he said he was helping some teacher out," Dean interjected.

"No. He was in my office sleeping. He passed out in class. I didn't wake him up until after four in the afternoon. He was really hot, definitely coming down with a fever and he was real lethargic. I tried calling and left several messages, but no one answered. So I gave him a ride home," Linda became interested. "He didn't tell you that?"

"No he didn't," Dean sighed. _And we never gave him the chance either_.

"Sam," the nurse shook her head bemused. "He seems to be one stubborn kid. Well anyways I came by to give Sam these," her hand dove into the tiny black handbag dangling from her shoulder, and pulled out several pamphlets. "I told him all about the college fair last Monday, and he seemed like he wanted to go. When he was in my office, I went through his bag and found his essay, and let me say your kid had wonderful talent. You should be very proud. I went to your house to pick him up, but no one came out. So I gathered a few fliers for him."

Both Winchesters seemed to slouch, appearing as though they took on a great deal of weight, their expressions blank and utterly defeated.

But Linda continued. "I needed something uplifting after this week. I had to attend several funerals, and now I'm on my way to one more."

"Who's?"

"A young girl. Leann Calvin? Her and her father were found dead last weekend and they say it was the same murderer who went around killing everyone else, including Brian. Brian Lieverman. Only this time…" she paused as tears well up in the tiny sockets, threatening to fall, "I just hope they get him and all this stops. I'm tired of my kids dying.

Anyway…uh. Could you give these to Sam and tell him I stopped by."

"Sure and thank you," Dean whispered, now in the throes of shock.

"You're welcome," Linda replied, quickly leaving out the door.

Breathing deeply, Dean sent a stern look towards his father. "I'll say again, we fucked up."

John sent a pointed look of his own. "You know it's not entirely our fault. Sam could've told us the truth when he came home."

"Would we have listened?"

John said nothing in reply, instead fishing out his cell and punching a few buttons. After pressing in the right code, the familiar female voice came up. He scrolled through the first five or so messages until finally the one he was looking for came up. "_Hi Mr. Winchester, this is Linda Cole. I'm the head nurse at Greenton High School and I have your son Sam in my office_…"

Once the message finished, John couldn't help but feel the weight of his heart sink into his gut. The ugly truth was staring him directly in the face, and there was no corner around to curl up and shrink from. Another screw up in the world of Winchester, and he knew that it would be damn near impossible to rebound from this.

* * *

The long awaited coffee break went a little longer than Dean intended. But it wasn't the towering display of rainbow colored doughnuts, or the three different types of caffeine brews, or the endless variety of junk food snacks to blame. However much he would have liked to indulge in the mini-boat of Twinkies; that too wasn't responsible for the extended trip. No, the fault lied solely with his father.

Having seen his Dad whisk by the fourth floor's lounge door, curiosity gained the upper punch resulting in winning the debate about whether to run after him. Dropping his full cup onto the counter, he high tailed it after the tall brute calling out his name. To his surprise his father had stopped, instead of completing another John Winchester Escape by ignoring the call, pretending he hadn't heard it, and continuing on until he was well out of reach.

Uncertainty and rampant suspicions walloped throughout his head, and angry stern accusations rose to the tip of his tongue ready to give a verbal lashing of a lifetime if indeed his suspicions were correct. For the second time in a few seconds he was in for another surprise to learn that his father wasn't leaving. Typically in a situation like this that was all Dean ever expected of his bold tough General: leave at the dusk of one battle and prepare for the eve of the next one. It had all happened countless times in their past, and it only seemed pragmatic to assume the same action.

The leaves of his flagellating feelings slowly wilted away to dust and he spied upon his father with beseeching hopeful eyes.

John gazed back into the worn exhausted mossy-green and he smirked. Though no words were vocalized, his eyes spoke volumes. Interpreting the mute communication, Dean instantly understood with relief that his father wasn't _leaving_, but merely taking a stroll elsewhere, stretching his legs. And in Winchester terminology, that meant he would be gone for a good while, attending to errands or whatever duty that burdened John Winchester's usually troubled mind.

All that took place was a curt nod signaling to his Dad he will see him soon and a brisk return to the coffee lounge. There was one medium black brew that was in dire need of guzzling.

Sipping gingerly at the scalding liquid, Dean casually made his way back to his brother's room, pausing along the way in checking out some very 'hot' nurses, his eyes a starving beggar in chick territory. And every so often they would pop to a different size at certain voluptuous beauties. One in particular was a redhead that had his ogling eyeballs spring from their sockets, bouncing from their tightly wound coils. He licked his lips; red heads normally had a particular reputation.

Okay, so his Dad wasn't entirely to blame.

Sauntering back to his mundane quiet, sometimes boring brother's room took most of his ecstatic energy, his feet dragging for most of the way. All creative and silly thoughts yearning for a kinky sexual rendition, however, vanished when he returned finding the room eerily quiet and his brother's bed empty. Immediately the familiar punch to the gut knocked all air out of his lungs, his mind wavering. The night Willis kidnapped his brother came back like a fatal snake's bite and he assumed the worst.

Forcing his heart back down his throat, his strained voice croaked, "Sam! Sammy?"

Rustling and a small bit of movement alerted his attention to the other side of the bed and he heard a wearied "Dammit" as though someone was other side struggling.

His feet were moving before his brain comprehended in making the direct order. On the floor he found his little brother sprawled, still in his hospital attire, his bandaged legs bent at awkward angles and a trail of red dots leading up to a tiny pool spread at the base of his elbow, where he ripped out the IV cord. It seemed as if Sam had tried taking a stand but made an awful faceplant. He was red in the face, sweaty, his expression strained and obviously frustrated.

Feelings of concern along with curiosity united creating one unique mix, and Dean wasn't sure which outweighed the other. From the looks of it, it appeared like Sam was attempting to make an escape, only he couldn't. Within two strides, his coffee was put aside and he was kneeling by the boy's side, who was now clawing at the tiled flooring flailing in protest at the hands grappling his sides.

"Sammy, what're you—"

"I gotta go," Sam cut him off, knocking his hands away. Tears formed at the brim of his purplish lids, his slick with sweat fingers sliding along the smooth surface. His legs flopped like an air-born fish, obviously still suffering from atrophy.

Now confusion was added into the amalgam of emotions. Dean jerked his head, "What do you mean, you gotta go?"

Sam didn't look his way, but continued to stare straight ahead, determined. His hands ceased to slide him across the floor. "I gotta get out of here," he gasped, gritting his teeth, the shade of exhaustion darkening.

"Why?"

Sam rewarded him with a serious glare. "You know why," he spat.

"Oh," Dean said, the realization hitting him square in the face. _He hates hospitals. _But it puzzled him. That surely couldn't be the sole reason behind the kid's sudden need to flee. He was exhausted, sick with pneumonia and fever, and lethargic. Something was missing. Something else had to be troubling Sam's mind for him to be motivated like this.

Sam hardly spared him any time to deduce a legitimate answer before he was on the move again. He worked hard pulling his arms toward him, the blistering skin sliding, becoming heated and raw. He made it hardly two inches before he finally giving out on the strain alone, breathless, plopping his chin on the dirty floor. "I just…want…to go home. But I…can't…get…my legs straight…"

Dean shook his head. "Well then, here, let me help you."

"No!" Sam nearly shrieked. "No. I can get it. I can get it. Just…" he gasped, "Just leave me alone."

"Sammy. Sammy, stop okay?" Dean tried to reason. "I know you can get it. I know you can. Here—"

"Stop Dean."

Dean now had to enforce to his stubborn brother that this situation was getting ridiculous. Even if Sam's effort allowed him to slide across the room, then what? He couldn't walk as it is. And if he wanted to leave, chances were a million to one he'd make it out of the building struggling to crawl like a newborn kitten.

"Hold on Sam. Wait just a second. Hear me out, okay?" Dean forced his struggling brother over onto his side. His kid brother peered into his eyes a little upset, but he had his rapt attention.

"Sam, you just woke up yesterday from _knocking on heaven's door. _I know you want to get out of here, and you will, trust me. But for right now, give yourself some time to recover, all right? Let us help you. I mean, hell we're practically responsible for putting you here in the first place. So please, don't be stubborn. You'll have plenty of time for that afterwards. Give yourself time to rest."

Sam grimaced. "I don't want to be here no more Dean. I…I just want to leave."

That crippling overwhelming amount of confusion resurfaced and Dean couldn't help but wonder why. For as long as he had known and seen at first hand the selfish whiny side of Sam, typically the main complaint would be why the family couldn't set up a more permanent base. Considering their family had not packed up and skedaddled in over six months, Dean figured Sam would be at least happy for staying that long. So now it was puzzling that the teen wanted to move away just as bad as he did.

"…I…if…I just can't move my legs," Sam's face developed another shade of puce, out of exhaustion, out of frustration? It was hard to tell. He swatted at the motionless logs, producing nothing but a menacing ache.

Dean huffed out a short laugh. "Dummy. Remember the Doc said it was going to take a while to get them back into shape. It's not the end of the world Sammy. So for the time being, humor me. Let's get you back in bed. Get better, and then we'll leave when the doc gives the A-Ok. Even if you give that killer puppy-dog look, you ain't going nowhere until you've managed to put a lid on that cough of yours."

He grinned when Sam sent another scathing glare his way. However beneath the threatening glare, he could see the wheels creaking: Sam coming to the head of a real tough debate. Even if Sam was arguing silently to himself, Dean already knew he had come to a decision. He lifted his arm. "So come on. Back in bed you go."

Climbing to his feet, with Sam hanging limply by his side, clutching onto his shirt and jacket as though it were his lifeline, Dean pulled his brother onto the bed. Sam fell back against his pillow, blinking the sweat out of his eyes, shuddering from the tiring episode. His limp legs sprawled over the side Dean lifted and placed back under the comfort of the hospital's flimsy blanket. Big brother instantly took a towel and wiped off the bloody residue from his elbows and arm, before wiping off whatever dripped onto his jacket.

"Hang on Sammy. I'll go get the doc to take care of that, and to get your IV back in. But next time don't yank it out. Whatcha thinking'?" he scolded teasingly with a dimpled grin, making his way towards the door.

"Dean, was it quick?"

The mere whisper had him freeze in his tracks. He looked back peering into the downcast eyes questioningly. "Was _what_ quick?"

Sam didn't answer off the bat, but continued to cast his gaze down to the side. Dean studied him for a second, a million thoughts racing through his worn-down racetrack mind. Then instantly it hit him like smashing into a brick wall. All the tumbling dominoes fell into place revealing the grand picture and it all made sense. The questioning withdrawal, the sudden need to move, the kid's worried complaints. How he hadn't caught on before mentally had him knock his head against a very firm piece of concrete. He moseyed over to the bed and tenderly sat by Sam's side.

"Yeah it was quick," he stated calmly, feeling the air suddenly become dense and hard to breathe.

Sam coughed, a glistening tint shadowing over the watery dull greens. "She didn't feel anything?"

"No," Dean rubbed his arm. "She's not suffering anymore. She's in a good place."

"You sure?"

At that Dean couldn't help but laugh. As much as it was hard to admit the certain belief of a good place to look forward to in the afterlife, his kid brother was always the believer, having enough faith for the both of them. So it was only fair, or in the very least courteous, to give him a little piece of consolatory comfort. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure. She was a great kid."

The lines of Sam's saddened expression smoothed out and his eyes drooped shut. Apparently his little escapade cost him a lot and now it was finally taking its toll. He slurred, "Thanks Dean…I don't blame you. You didn't know and you didn't have a choice. I understand that…but she's in a good place."

Dean nodded, refusing to say anything else. He pulled up the blanket past Sam's shoulders catching the slight shiver out of the corner of his eye. "Sit tight Sammy. I'll go get the doc and getcha another blanket," he remarked watching Sam's eyelids take their final bow and the even breathing pan out.

Before strolling out of the room, a small smile worked its way in, as he finally felt now at peace. It was teeth-chattering nervous in how he was going to make it up to Sam about Leann, but as such his little brother had managed a way to nullify the painful part and now…and now they can both recover. Now they can both move on.

And at this stage, that's all he can ask for.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: **

…**Here I am, On the Road Again…**

"Zoommm…Zoooommmm. Speeding around the corner, heading towards the tunnel…but oh, the enemy has blocked it off…and _crash!_"

"Errrrrkkkk! No! We survived, swerving to the side. Coming around again…waiting for the opening. Waiting. Waiting. Praying that it'll open up…and No! Crash again!"

John watched with amused interest while his eldest baby-fed his youngest. There was a permanent glare etched over Sammy's wan face, the look intensifying when Dean made more childish sounds like "Choo-Choo" and "Chuga-chuga-chuga-chuga", pretending the spoon of lemon-lime Jello was a train this time instead of a racecar. Sam pressed his lips together each time the spoon came close.

This time Dean created a "swoosh" sound resembling an airplane, waving the spoon back and forth. "Open up Sammy. The plane is _Go for take-off_. If you don't open up, it'll crash and burn."

The glare never faltered. John surmised if it were at all possible, Sam would have deep-fried his brother by sending down a bolt of lightning. And he had to admit it was highly entertaining.

Evident by the hardened stare, Sam would have preferred if he fed himself. But as both hands were weighted down in tubes and wires, and he hadn't fully regained back his strength, there was only one option left. No doubt Dean loved the teasing. It was only fair that Sam was plotting his downfall.

"Come Sam," Dean whined as the block of gelatin fell off the spoon. "If you don't try to eat something, they're going to come in here and shove a tube up your nose. And I hear they do it while your awake. Do you want that?"

And still the glare remained.

"I won't make any more noises, I swear," Dean compromised, lifting the spoon again, now with a new block of gummy goodness. Finally the pursed lips relented and split open, allowing access for the spoon to enter. Sam clenched his mouth tight as Dean started to pull away.

"Sam. Let go. Sam?" Dean wiggled the utensil. He smiled. "Let it go. You're not eating the spoon. Give it back."

Sam shook his head.

"Oh really," Dean grinned menacingly before clamping a tight fist around the stick and pulled, yanking and forcing it from side to side. Sam's head went with the motion, his head pulled in the direction Dean took it, but yet he wouldn't let go. Part of Dean's left eye twitched and he felt he had to bring out some reinforcement. Cheating, he tickled his brother's right side ultimately winning the victory by taking the spoon.

Laughing at his brother's mock-torn face, Dean waved his victory-stick around gloatingly. Sam chuckled at bit, rubbing away the throbbing action from the invasion of personal space on his side. He pointed a sharp finger at his brother and said, "Cheater," to which Dean merely replied by shrugging with his infamous shit-eating grin.

The brothers then went into a round of uncontrollable giggles and snickers over their antics. They guffawed and teased, smacked each other amiably and laughed some more. Dean more so since Sam had to stifle his laughter to a point. Sam was about to retaliate with a smartass retort when accidentally he slammed his hand down on the edge of the tray of food, and the rectangular container took flight.

Nothing was more hilarious at that moment for Sam than Dean's shocked expression as a vast amount of uneaten food came hurling in his direction, and landed with a great 'splat' on his clothes and face. It was beyond impossible to hold it in. Sam turned beat red, letting out ear-splitting cackles as Dean blinked away some of the chocolate pudding sliding down his eyes and nose.

"Yeah. Yeah. Laugh it up," Dean growled, wiping off the muck.

Sam had to clench his side, the pain doubling as he continued to produce cacophonous whoops. Dean stood up and watched as the remnants of Sam's lunch fell to the ground. Taking up the towel stationed on the bedside table, he wiped himself off shaking his head at his sibling's chortles. He looked up sensing that the other side of the room was strangely quiet. His Dad wasn't participating in the laugh fest, but staring absent-mindedly away.

"Dad, are you okay?"

Sam's thunderous laughing ceased to an abrupt halt and he peered at his father, also catching the same zoned-out look. "Dad?" he coughed.

"Dad?" Dean called a little more loudly.

"Huh?" John snapped out of his trance at being summoned. He looked to both boys questioningly, "What?"

"Are you okay?" Dean asked again.

John sighed, now kneading his hands together. There was no mistaking it: something was obviously troubling the Great John Winchester's mind. "No, I'm not. I need to talk to both of you boys."

"Uh oh," Dean stated with a forlorn apprehension. "What's going on?"

"I was thinking…maybe," he sighed again.

That entire wall of suspicion grew to another length and Dean became severely agitated by it, not knowing what to conclude. He took a gander at his little brother who appeared just as leery as he was. "What is it Dad?"

John's gaze hardened on his two boys and he found his courage. "I was thinking I should skip out for a while, give you guys a break. Maybe take you to Pastor Jim's or Bobby's or…"

"Dad no," Sam protested. "We don't want you to leave. All of this can be forgiven—"

"Sammy stop it," John ordered immediately hushing his youngest. "I nearly got you killed," he said with such conviction, it was stunning. "I was overconfident and arrogant. I put my needs first before yours and look what happened. No father has the right to do that, and it will forever haunt me. So just for a little while, I'm giving you guys a break. At least until I get my priorities straight, okay?"

Sam said nothing but continued to stare in astonishment. Dean simply sat back down refusing to say a word.

John smiled a little. "Nothing to worry about. You guys get to have a vacation. Enjoy the sights if you want. I figured I'd take you to Pastor Jim's house for the remainder of the month and then Bobby can take you in for the rest of the summer. I've already made all the arrangements. Once your doctor gives the all clear, then we'll head out of here. I know it's not something you want to hear, but…it's…" he trailed off.

"It's just what Dad?" Dean urged.

The troubled father sighed and licked his lips, unable to come up with any other answer. "…It's just something I gotta do. And I won't have any arguments about it either."

* * *

Two days later and Sam was given the all clear. Though sluggish and with hardly any mobility still in his legs, his excitement skyrocketed way over the moon and for the first time in a long time a pleasant smile adorned his pale face. Weak from the past week and a half, having suffered through the last awful phase of pneumonia and its crippling coughing, it wasn't a surprise when Big Brother had to _literally_ pick him up and place him into a wretched wheelchair.

Grudging from having to be rolled out –according to his brother, in style- a meek frown quickly replaced his beaming smile when Dean began pointing out in high volume at his presence.

"Sick kid brother coming through…."

"Clear a path people or he'll cough on you…"

"Adios compadres! Pneumonia survivor making his way downtown…_Dooowwwnnnn_…_Tooowwwwwnnnn_. Come on. Move it. Move it. Move it!"

Sam clenched his eyes shut and prayed when they opened again, he'd be in the Land of the Dead…anywhere was better than the land of Humiliation and Shame and Annoying Brothers. The cheery whistles of birds and the buzz of the bees sounded, and the warmth of the radiating sun set on his skin, alerting his temporarily shutdown brain he was at last on the outside. Prying his eyes to slits catching the gleam of the black paint and the noxious fumes of car exhaust, that hotter-than-gold smile found its way back.

There she was: the Impala. His getaway. His companion…his home.

Dean rolled the wheelchair on up to where his Dad had the backdoor swung open. "Here ya go Sammy, your chariot awaits."

Sam said nothing in reply, but continued to stare heartwarmingly at the beauty. Taking a stand on jelly-like legs, Dean came around and took up his arm, leading him to the car one staggering step at a time.

Dean smirked. "Don't worry there Sport, you'll get back to your wobbly self in no time. Remember the Pastor has all those trails and hike areas in his backyard. You'll be able to meditate and do whatever Yoga crap all you want!"

Sam found no room for a comeback as all energy and concentration was put into walking the very few steps to the car. When finally he managed to sprawl onto the backseat where a blanket and pillow was already waiting for him, he drawled out, "Yeah sure, whatever!" He took one concerned glance at the floor. "Dean?"

Dean chuckled. "Gotcha covered Sammy," he said pulling out a flashlight. Clicking it on, he replaced it under the floorboard, and finished patting down the overused army blanket over his brothers skinny legs. Sam breathed out a sigh of relief, now finally at peace and ready for the long haul to Blue Earth.

For good measure, Dean slid a flashlight under his own seat before nodding his head to his father, giving the cue "Let's Roll!" Within minutes, the Impala was screeching out onto the asphalt putting Greenton way behind in the rearview mirror.

Not too long into the journey, Dean turned to his Dad once more. "Hey Dad," he began rather sheepishly, "Could you do me a big favor when we turn in tonight?"

"What?" John turned a sharp eye on him, intrigued.

Dean licked his lips, wondering if he should ask this, perhaps feeling a little old for worrying—but after this experience, he instantly realized he was never too old to worry about something like _this_. "Could you please check under the bed?"

"Mine too," Sam piped from the back.

A small smile lit up on John's face as he shook his head in exasperation, "Boys!"

* * *

One hell of a pounding headache erupted throughout his skull resembling close to a _Ted Nugent_ mosh-pit bouncing around. His head shook with the throbbing and he gritted his teeth. The stink of a musty, decaying odor infiltrated his senses, and he wondered if that was the culprit behind the zealous headache. A certain nauseating feeling eroded his stomach, his gut instinct screaming in protest violently waking him up.

Groaning, Willis pulled himself into a sitting position. The insides of his brain cavity still shook, threatening to collapse and he grabbed the back of his head, feeling a small protruding bump at the tips of his index and middle fingers. He opened his eyes and gasped at being completely consumed in darkness. Before any other rational thought became prominent, only one declared dominance over all others: how the hell did he get in the dark?

There wasn't much to remember. After the Winchesters took off, hoping for a useless miracle that their dead son and brother would come back to life, he left without another word or action. The witch he intended to snuff quickly vanished within the blink of an eye, leaving no reason to stay. It wasn't long until he found himself in a small bar outside St. Louis, soaking up the establishment's quantity of alcohol like a sponge. And that was the last place he could recollect in being.

Nothing else came to mind on how he happened to be in his current whereabouts. All that registered was that he was chatting with some pretty, drunk-off-his-ass, and reeking of whiskey and booze. The next minute he was waking to complete darkness and a horrible vomit-inducing smell. He couldn't complain; he had woken up in fouler places.

He searched around for the lighter he usually kept stashed in his back pocket. Patting around his jeans, one thing did occur to him: he was unarmed. His pistol was missing, along with his switchblade. That screaming instinctual vibe struck a cord and he tensed, feeling awkward and vulnerable.

Relief befell a small part of him as he found his silver lighter where he left it. Flicking it on, the orange glow lit up his surroundings and he jumped to his feet in fright. His surroundings consisted of wooden walls, all short and unkempt, covered in splinters and broken pieces. But on those walls, at the base of them, on the floor, and well, all around, were skeletons, and among those dry bones were decaying corpses. Some old. Some fresh. The smell increased ten-fold once he found the source and he gagged.

His instincts started to sing soprano now, and he backed away, realizing he was standing in a pile of bones. The light flickered and wavered and Willis nearly cried out as he searched for an exit. The walls were tight, boxing him in. Confusion and downright unadulterated terror invaded his senses, taking him hostage. A nasty wave of claustrophobia also added into the mix and he felt his breath hitch.

Not finding any way out, he took a look around and gagged some more. Some of the bodies he recognized. With his torch burning away, Willis approached one corpse in particular. Keeping the light at a distance, he peered closely at it, acknowledging that it was a red-haired girl he had killed in Missouri. Shot down like the rest of her family and swept away in the current of the river, he'd thought he'd never see her again. Stepping steadily closer, his quivering gaze fell upon the girl studying her pale flabby skin, dirt spots and alga/seaweed intertwined within the reddish strands, and the torn clothing obviously as a testament to the river's brutal mercy.

He peered closer. The young woman's dull lifeless eyes suddenly shot his way.

He jumped back in horror, his eyes widening, in disbelief at what he just witnessed. However, his jaw dropped and he stumbled backwards yammering like an idiot as the corpse now began to move, creepily coming to a stand and began to stumble towards him. Automatically he reached for a weapon that wasn't there, and that's when, in the flickering light, everything began to move.

All once motionless and still heads turned in his direction, and along with the redhead began to move, lumbering towards a newfound target. Willis backed up to a corner of the boxed in walls. Some of the skeletons' hands clawed at his pants, climbing up the legs. He batted at the things, crying out. Looking up, more of the corpses were up, staggering his way, reaching with bloody and green hands and arms. He fought, swinging a fist, kicking and shoving. However the dead continued, beating, clawing at him with spiny fingers.

Suddenly the light went out and all Willis could do was scream.

Anya stood with a menacing smirk before the closed trunk, the boogeyman's humble abode, holding a lit match. She waved her hand and chains magically wove around the box, locking it tight. Her emerald eyes gleamed with mirth and satisfaction, relishing at the hunter's screams and she blew out the match.

And then all went black.

…**There I go, Turn the Page…**

**End.**


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